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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


Class  Book  Volume 

$2.3  32.2.'oo 


Ja  O9-20M 


•  - 


THE 


BOYNE  WATER. 


.  BY  THE  O’HARA  FAMILY. 

;  T&Kvv 

1  t 1 


21  $fan>  (Edition,  nutl)  Introduction  and  dfoteo, 


BY  MICHAEL  BANIM,  ESQ., 

THE  8UBVIVOR  OP  THE  “O’HARA  FAMILY.” 

Authors  of  “  The  Peep  o’  Day,”  “  The  Croppy,”  “  The  Mayor  of  Windgap,” 
“  The  Bit  o’ Writm1,”  “The  Denounced,”  “Peter  of  the  Castle,”  and 
“The  Fetches,”  “  Father  ConnelL,”  “ The  Ghost-Hunter  and  his 
Family,”  and  “  Clough  Fion,  or  the  Stone  of  Destiny,” 

“The  Life  of  John  Banim,”  etc. 


NEW  YORK: 

P.  J.  KENEDY, 

EXCELSIOR  PUBLISHING  HOUSE; 

5  BARCLAY  STREET, 

1896. 


T*L  3 

3  zz^>° 


Copyright : 

D.  &  J.  SADLIER  &  CO. 
i89s. 


INTRODUCTION. 


*. 

Early  in  May,  1825,  I  received  a  letter  from  my  brother, 
portions  of  which  I  here  extract. 

“  I  will  come  out  (our  title  page  still  continued)  with  a  tale, 
in  three  vote.,  next  Christmas ;  and  I  propose  that,  if  possible, 
you  must  be  the  next  O’Hara.  Your  guess  about  Derry  is  rght; 
and  you  recommend  is  my  own  plan,  long  since  chalked  out. 
I  will  visit  every  necessary  spot  in  the  north  and  south  :  Derry  ; 
Lcugh  Neagh ;  from  that  down  to  the  Boyne ;  and  then,  Lim¬ 
erick,  once  more.  I  conceive  that  I  possess,  after  laborious  study, 
good  workable  materials  for  a  historic  tale.  Derry,  alone,  sup¬ 
plies  me  with  good  scenes  and  studies — I  mean  in  appeal  to  the 
human  heart — and  the  name  of  my  tale  shall  be  “  The  Boyne 
Water.”  .  .  .  This  is  Thursday.  I  leave  for  Ireland  next  Tues¬ 
day  morning,  purpose  to  be  in  Dublin  (taking  my  time  through 
Wales)  to-morrow  week,  and  shall,  when  there,  expect  a  long 
letter  from  you,  addressed  to  Tom  Mulvaney’s  care.  Then,  not 
waiting  to  get  to  the  North,  I  will  write  to  father  ;  and,  about 
ten  days  after,  look  out  for  me  in  Kilkenny.  Do  you  think  we 
can  wend  to  Limerick  together  ?” 

»om  Coleraine  I  received  the  following : 

“Coleraine,  May  28,  1825. 

M  My  Dear  Michael — Lest  you  should  be  uneasy  at  my  stay¬ 
ing  longer  than  I  proposed  in  the  letter  from  Dublin  to  ray 

162632 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


father,  I  write  to  say  I  am  well,  and  have  only  been  delayed  by 
the  uninterrupted  interest  of  my  route  from  Belfast.  I  walked  a 
great  part  of  the  way  along  the  coast  to  this  town,  having  for¬ 
warded  all  my  luggage,  and  trusting  to  Him  who  feeds  the  spar¬ 
row  and  the  raven  for  a  meal  and  a  bed.  Indeed,  my  adven¬ 
tures  have  been  considerable  in  the  way  of  living.  Sometimes  I 
slept  in  a  shebeen  house,  sometimes  in  a  farmer’s  house,  some¬ 
times  in  a  good  inn  ;  and,  only  I  thought  myself  in  too  soiled  a  trim, 
I  might  have  participated  the  hospitalities  of  the  Countess  of 
Antrim,  as  I  was  kindly  invited  to  do.  But  all  this  is  nothing. 
The  scenery  I  have  beheld !  Grand  !  exquisite!  The  Cause¬ 
way,  from  which  I  have  just  returned,  the  best  part  of  it.  So 
far,  my  business  has  been  well  done.  I  go  on  to-night  in  the 
mail  to  Derry,  and  you  may  certainly  look  for  me  towards  the 
end  of  the  next  week — that  is,  Saturday — and  so  assure  all  at 
home. 

“John  Banim.” 

There  is  nothing  whatever  more  delightful  to  the  affections, 
than  when  the  hiatus  in  a  family,  produced  by  absence,  is  filled 
up  ;  and  we  certainly  welcomed  Barnes  O’Hara  back  again,  to 
his  old  chair  at  our  table,  with  a  cead  mille  failthe. 

A  few  days  only  was  Barnes  O’Hara  able  to  spend  with  his 
family.  He  was  obliged  to  hurry  back  to  London  ;  and,  finding 
that  he  was  unable  to  proceed  to  the  South,  as  he  had  intended, 
he  requested  I  would  journey  thither  alone. 

I  did  so  shortly  after.  I  traced  on  the  spot  the  localities  con¬ 
nected  with  the  last  siege  of  Limerick  ;  I  travelled  thence  on 
foot,  over  a  disused  road,  to  Killaloe  ;  from  Killaloe  I  ascended 
the  Slieve  Bloom  Mountains,  my  way  lying  by  the  base  of  the 
massive  Keeper  Hill,  and  thence  on  to  the  Pass  of  Doone.  I 
had  succeeded  in  following  the  route  taken  by  Sarsfield,  on  his 
expedition  to  intercept  the  cannon  and  military  supplies  proceed¬ 
ing  to  re-enforce  the  besiegers  of  Limerick. 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


From  the  Pass  of  Doone,  where  Sarsfield  had  lain  in  ambush, 
I  eould  see  the  hill  of  Ballineety  directly  opposite  ;  and  beneath 
me  was  the  flat  country,  across  which  the  daring  soldier  had 
dashed  when  the  night-fires  on  Ballineety  told  him  the  hour  of 
daring  had  come. 

Some  of  my  adventures,  as  I  progressed  on  my  way,  were 
highly  characteristic  of  the  country  and  the  people.  I  for* 
warded  my  notes  to  my  brother,  giving  him  a  detailed  statement 
of  all  I  met  with  in  my  rambles.  A  further  extract,  from  one  of 
his  letters,  will  aptly  close  this  short  introduction : 

“  October  25,  1825. 

“My  Dear  Michael — Your  Sarsfield  labors  have  gone  far 
beyond  my  expectations.  I  return  you  my  best  thanks  for  all 
you  have  done.  Apart  from  the  thing  I  wanted,  your  notes  are 
rich,  and  suggest  to  me  a  continuance  of  such  things,  by  both  ; 
and  some  time  or  other  a  publication  of  *  Walks  through  Ireland, 

m 

by  the  O’Hara  Family,’  if,  indeed,  we  do  not  use  the  sketches  in 
our  novels,  from  time  to  time. 

“J.  Banim.” 

Before  this  plan,  to  which  I  looked  forward  with  great  pleas¬ 
ure,  could  be  carried  into  effect,  my  brother’s  health  broke  down ; 
and  many  other  ardent  speculations  were  abandoned,  too,  in 
consequence. 

MICHAEL  BANIM. 


Kilkenny,  25th  January,  1865. 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 


FROM 

MR.  ABEL  O’HARA  TO  MR.  BARNES  O’HARA. 

GRAY’S  INN,  LONDON. 


Inishmore,  February  2,  1826. 

My  Dear  Barnes — Happy  we  are  to  learn  from  yours  duly 
received  (along with  the  last  transcript  of  our  “Boyne  Water”), 
by  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dennis  Mahony,  of  this  place,  that  you  are 
well,  in  good  spirits,  and  near  the  conclusion  of  your  dinner  eat¬ 
ing  ;  so  that  we  may  now  reckon  on  your  return  amongst  us 
sooner  than  we  had  ventured  to  anticipate. 

Mr.  Mahony  reports  you  as  well  perched,  too,  in  a  third  or 
fourth  story  of  the  Honorable  Inn  of  Court  to  which  you  are 
appended,  comfortable  and  sleek  to  look  at,  when  the  double 
door  of  your  chambers  has  been  once  gained  ;  but  this,  he  adds, 
with  a  sneer  (not,  indeed,  to  me,  but  to  others),  is  rather  a  task. 
He  is  a  fat  little  man,  you  know,  and  not  much  used  to  bodily  ex¬ 
ertion  ;  so  that  no  great  importance  is  to  be  attached  to  his 
views  of  your  situation,  either  in  this  instance  or  in  others,  con¬ 
cerning  which  (I  am  further  able  to  learn)  he  has  allowed  himself 
a  certain  latitude  of  remark  among  the  curious  of  your  natiy« 
village.  Meantime,  my  dear  Barnes,  I  hope  there  is  really  no 
bad  symptom  in  the  reported  elevation  you  enjoy.  Though  I 


8 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


know  little  of  the  appreciations  of  a  great  city,  yon  are  no* 
ignorant  that  with  ns  at  home,  second  floors,  I  should  say  third 
or  fourth,  if  such  things  were  common,  are  allotted  in  lodging- 
houses  to  persons  of  limited  means,  who  sink  in  public  considera¬ 
tion  just  according  to  their  rise  in  the  edifice.  Truth  is,  I  am 
somewhat  nettled  by  the  nature  of  Mr.  Dennis  Mahony’s  frequent 
observations  on  this  and  other  subjects,  all  faithfully  conveyed  to 
me  by  friends  of  yours  and  mine,  who  make  it  a  point  not  to  leave 
me  in  ignorance  of  one  word  whispered  against  either  of  us. 

Can  you  tell  me,  Barnes,  what  literary  friends  Mr.  Mahony 
has  in  London  ?  That  point  I  would  wish  to  ascertain.  I  know 
that  he  left  Inismore  with  the  same  favorable  notion  of  your  late 
success  that  was  entertained  by  his  neighbors.  This  was  proved 
by  his  offering  (handsomely,  as  I  thought)  to  take  charge  of  letters 
for  you.  But  his  “  literary  friends,”  he  now  says,  have  given  him 
quite  a  new  view  of  things.  In  this  new  view,  the  changed  Mr. 
Mahony  is  upheld  by  old  Doctor  Hummum,  to  whom,  the  very 
first  morning  of  his  reappearance  behind  his  counter,  he  commu¬ 
nicated  it ;  and  he  made  the  communication  in  the  presence  of  a 
number  of  news-loving  gentlemen,  and  of  two  little  girls,  customers. 
I  assure  you,  the  pronouncement  of  the  doctor,  and  his  dogmatic 
repetition  of  the  matter,  make  considerable  impression  on  part  of 
the  public  mind  of  Inismore.  The  old  gentleman,  although  get¬ 
ting  no  practice  in  his  own  profession,  yet  enjoys  great  fame 
amongst  us  as  an  author  himself,  for  the  book  he  published,  and 
which  was  printed,  as  you  know,  by  Mr.  Isaac  Holmes,  of  High- 
street.  Then,  his  first-rate  skill  as  a  musician;  he  playing  equally 
well  on  the  flute,  violin,  and  violoncello.  Further,  his  rapid  and 
self-directed  progress  in  the  art  of  painting  in  oil-colors  (which 
he  commenced  in  his  fifty-ninth  year).  Those  last-named  pur¬ 
suits  add  a  brilliancy,  as  it  were,  to  his  literary  name,  and  cause 
much  weight  to  be  attached  to  his  literary  decisions. 

-  Yet,  as  I  have  said,  the  impression  made  by  Mr.  Mahony  and 
Doctor  Hummum  is  only  partial — none  but  the  immediate  frienda 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


9 


of  the  two  gentlemen  being  much  influenced.  The  great  ma¬ 
jority  of  the  public  voice  of  Inismore  is  still  with  you,  my  dear 
Barnes  ;  your  good  fortune  is  still  a  cause  of  pleasure  to  your 
fellow-townsmen,  and  (Heaven  bless  the  dear,  kind-hearted  crear 
tures  !)  to  your  townswomen,  too,  of  different  ranks.  It  is  my 
pride  to  perceive  that  (notwithstanding  certain  o’erpast  back- 
slidings  between  the  ages  of  seventeen  and  two-and-twenty,  of 
which  “least  said  is  soonest  mended”)  my  brother  Barnes 
O’Hara  has  the  lively  good  wishes  of  his  native  place. 

Nor,  after  a  moment’s  reflection,  can  Mr.  Dennis  Mahony’s  de¬ 
preciating  hints,  grounded  on  his  conclusions  as  to  your  aerial 
abode  in  the  Inn  of  Court,  weigh  against  the  pleasing  assurances 
contained  in  your  Christmas  letter  to  your  father  and  mother — 
that  thrice  welcomed  Christmas  letter !  We  got  it  on  the  eve  of 
the  great  festival,  just  when  our  uncertainties  about  you,  brought 
on  us  by  Mr.  Mahony  and  Doctor  Hummum,  were  at  their 
height. 

Though  father,  and  mother,  and  sister,  and  brother  had  each 
a  private  reading,  there  was  no  general  participation,  until  the 
dinner-cloth  disappeared  the  next  joyous  day.  A  chair  had  been 
placed  at  your  old  side  of  the  table,  opposite  the  poor  mother — 
this  chair  was  your  representative.  Then,  Barnes,  your  letter 
was  read  aloud  by  me,  for  the  general  behoof ;  your  mother  lis¬ 
tened,  as  if  it  were  quite  new  to  her,  sitting  back  in  her  chair, 
with  crossed  hands,  happy  as  quiet  smiles  and  tears  could  make 
her.  Mary  sat  watching  the  mother’s  face  ;  and  your  father 
often  shifting  his  position,  and  taking  long-drawn  pinches  of  Lundy 
Foot’s  high  toast.  Your  letter  read,  it  was  placed  on  the  table, 
opposite  your  representative,  the  chair.  Then  the  mother  pro¬ 
posed  “  health  and  a  blessing  to  Barnes,  this  holy  Christmas-day; 
and  to  make  friends,  we’ll  drink  Doctor  Hummum’s  health,  and 
Mr.  Mahony’s,  too,  and  God  forgive  them  both.”  We  clinked 
our  glasses  in  silence,  our  moist  eyes  exchanging  many  glances, 
as  we  cv-med  our  bumpers  to  our  lips. 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


10 

So,  God  forgive  Mr.  Mahony  ;  and  his  friend,  Doctor  Hum- 
mum,  I  say,  also.  And  now  let  me  perform  my  task  of  adding 
my  final  comments,  and  answering  your  last  questions  referring 
to  the  three  volumes  herewith  returned  for  publication. 

You  may  rest  assured  of  the  propriety  of  my  Irish  tornado,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  first  volume.  Many  of  our  old  folks  here 
remember  when  such  phenomena  were  not  unusual  in  Ireland. 
But  I  have  better  authority  for  it,  very  nearly  on  the  ground 
where  I  use  it,  in  “The  History  of  Carrickfergus,”  etc.,  etc., 
etc.,  published  by  my  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Samuel  M’Skimin,  of 
that  town.  To  him,  indeed,  we  stand  indebted  for  other  pleas¬ 
ing  localities  introduced.  He  came  to  me,  at  my  little  Carrick¬ 
fergus  inn,  in  the  honorable  primitiveness  of  the  olden  time,  his 
coat  well  bedusted  with  the  flour  of  the  mill,  of  which  he  is  the 
esteemed  proprietor,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  valuable  volume  to 
which  I  have  alluded. 

Upon  the  manner  in  which  one  of  our  characters  catches  and 
tames  a  wild  colt,  you  suspect  some  question  may  also  arise.  I 
can  only  assure  you,  that  while  I  have  excellent  tradition  for  at¬ 
tributing  to  that  character  the  possession,  nearly  two  centuries 
ago,  of  such  a  gift,  an  individual  of  our  time  was  greatly  cele¬ 
brated  for  it,  as  can  be  attested  by  credible  witnesses.  No  one 
is  able,  indeed,  to  tell  me  the  nature  of  this  mysterious  mastery 
over  the  race  of  horses  ;  and,  although  it  may  be  surmised,  if  not 
explained  on  simple  principles,  yet,  with  a  proper  regard  to  his¬ 
toric  truth,  I  leave  it  just  as  I  got  it — unaccounted  for. 

Some  of  the  interest  of  the  third  volume  turning  on  a  mistake 
which  (though  with  a  very  different  use  made  of  it)  is  to  be 
found  in  one  of  the  works  of  an  illustrious  story-teller,  you  fear  we 
may  be  accused  of  wilful  imitation.  I  stoutly  answer,  “  No !”  No 
one  charges  that  illustrious  story-teller  with  wilful  imitation  of  a 
play  of  Shakspeare,  in  which  the  same  mistake  occurs.  This  hap  of 
close  personal  resemblance  is  not  of  very  rare  occurrence.  We 
have,  ourselves,  seen  two  instances  of  it,  and  we  may  surely  be 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


11 


pt*  mitted  to  draw  from  our  own  observations.  Do  not  trouble 
your  head,  overmuch,  on  the  matter  you  last  wrote  about. 

You  say  yourself,  “Englishmen,  of  almost  every  party,  who 
may  honor  our  book  with  a  perusal,  are  now  prepared  to  recog¬ 
nize  the  truth  of  the  historical  portraits  we  sketch  and  allude 
to.”  You  tell  me,  “  that  since  some  late  publications,  and,  par¬ 
ticularly,  since  the  publication  of  ‘The  Life  of  James  II.,  King 
of  England,  collected  out  of  memoirs  writ  of  his  own  hand,’ 
edited  ‘  from  the  authentic  manuscripts,’  by  the  librarian  at  Carl¬ 
ton  House,  and  published  under  the  auspices  of  his  present  gra¬ 
cious  majesty,  Englishmen  have  ceased  to  attribute  to  the  de¬ 
posed  monarch  such  civil  tyranny,  and  such  plotting  against  their 
religion,  as  his  hostile  contemporaries  found  it  politic  to  lay  at 
his  door.” 

And  further,  you  say,  “  that  inasmuch  as  the  least  perfect 
parts  of  the  British  constitution  were  not  only  allowed  to  re¬ 
main  by  James's  successor,  but  other  parts,  perhaps  more  objec¬ 
tionable,  added  to  them,  Englishmen  at  present  see,  in  the  zeal 
of  the  adherents  of  that  successor,  as  much  selfishness  as  pa¬ 
triotism  ;  as  much  thirst  of  monopoly  as  thirst  of  righteousness  ; 
as  much  hunger  for  the  ‘loaves  and  fishes'  as  for  the  bread  of 
life  ;  as  much  indifference  to  freedom,  when  freedom  could  have 
been  secured,  as  emptiness  in  the  clamor  they  raised  in  her  name. 
In  a  word,  as  much  pretension  as  truth  ;  as  much  of  Jesuitism  as 
the  so-called  J esuitism  they  profess  to  oppose.” 

While,  from  your  opinion  of  English  principle  and  character, 
you  venture,  in  more  of  hope  than  of  misgiving,  before  an  English 
reader,  you  entertain  some  dread  of  an  Irish  reader.  Now,  I 
have  been  in  Ireland  all  the  time  you  have  been  out  of  it — of 
course,  I  possess  so  much  more  observation  of  the  country  ;  and 
I  am  bold  to  rally  your  heart  on  this  point.  Don’t  be  chicken- 
hearted,  Barnes.  In  the  name  of  St.  Patrick’s  “  green,  immor¬ 
tal  shamrock,”  I  tell  you  to  go  on,  and  fear  not. 

No  period  of  our  history  is,  in  Ireland,  so  little  understood,  so 


12 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


little  known,  as  that  we  have  stumbled  on.  No  period  is  sc 
much  involved  in  traditionary  gossip  and  popular  stories.  Through 
the  medium  of  popular  stories,  both  sides  are,  indeed,  best  ac¬ 
quainted  with  it. 

For  instance,  one  side  regards  William  as  a  persecutor,  which 
he  was  not ;  as  a  Church  of  England  champion,  which  he  was 
not ;  and  as  a  religious  bigot,  which  he  was  not.  The  other  side 
regard  him  as  an  amiable  and  chivalrous  hero  of  romance  ;  and 
they  will  have  it  that  he  was  an  appointed  instrument,  first  to 
England,  and  next  to  Ireland,  specially  missioned  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  rooting  out  Popery — and  very  pious  withal.  They  claim 
him  as  a  Church  of  England  man,  because  he  is  eulogized  by 
Church  of  England  Protestants,  who  cannot  be  supposed  to  ap¬ 
plaud  the  “  piety”  of  a  prince  differing  widely  from  their  religion, 
and  often  heartily  disliking  it. 

James,  too,  is  misunderstood.  Both  sides  are  of  accord  in  one 
point  concerning  him,  namely,  that  he  was  a  coward,  or  something 
like  it.  His  hereditary  haters  call  him  tyrant,  butcher,  fanatic  ; 
his  most  vivid  identity  in  their  minds  is  a  brass  sixpence,  or  a 
pair  of  wooden  shoes  ;  while  the  descendants  of  those  who 
fought  by  his  side,  scarcely  take  the  trouble  of  denying  one  of 
the  leading  charges  against  him,  either  because  they  have  listened, 
until  repetition  worries  them  into  assent,  or  because,  if  it  be  al¬ 
lowed  by  them  that  James  was  a  coward,  which  he  was  not,  they 
place  the  odium  of  defeat  on  his  shoulders,  and  thereby  gratify 
their  own  wounded  vanity. 

Thus  they  go  on,  Protestant  and  Catholic — 

“  Both  disclaiming  truth. 

And  truth  disclaiming  both.” 

I  will  not,  Barnes,  examine  at  unreasonable  length,  here,  all 
the  opposing  opinions  of  one  party  or  the  other.  I  have  satisfied 
myself  that  the  portraits  held  up  as  likenesses  of  the  rival  princes, 
fames  II.  and  his  son-in-law  William,  are  neither  of  tbuo  true 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


13 


pictures.  I  have  taken  all  due  pains,  as  I  was  bound  to  do,  to 
get  at  the  bottom  of  the  (in  Ireland)  muddy  well,  where  truth  is 
to  be  found  ;  and  my  mind  is  at  ease  as  to  the  result  of  my  re¬ 
searches.  I  have  the  approval  of  my  conscience,  touching  my 
desire  to  substitute  facts  for  loose  representations.  Let  there  be 
realities,  say  I,  instead  of  delusions  ;  and  then,  sound  footing  will 
be  preferred  to  Will-o’-the-Wisp  erroneousness. 

I  will  tell  you,  Barnes,  what  I  would  like  to  aid  :  I  would  go 
far  to  assist  in  dispersing  the  mist  that  hangs  over  Irish  ground. 
I  would  like  to  see  those  dwelling  on  the  Irish  soil  looking  about 
them  in  the  clear  sunshine — the  murkiness  dispelled — recognizing 
each  other  as  belonging  to  a  common  country,  and  exchanging 
the  password,  “  This  is  my  native  land.” 

If,  even  through  the  medium  of  a  work  of  fiction,  we  make  a 
step  towards  the  above  result,  I  see  no  reason  to  anticipate  hos¬ 
tility  ;  we  must  claim  the  credit  of  good  intention,  at  all  events. 

I  am  oversanguine,  perhaps  ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  expect  that 
partisans,  even,  will  not  cling  to  error,  merely  because  it  coincides 
with  their  preconceived  prejudices.  We,  here  in  Ireland,  ought 
to  be  anxious  to  ascertain  our  position  accurately,  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  we  may  give  ourselves  a  common  country.  At 
present,  the  Irish,  as  a  people,  have  no  country,  while  the  chil¬ 
dren  of  every  other  soil  boast  a  proud  identity  with  their  native 
land. 

At  all  events,  we  have  nothing  to  fear,  even  from  displeasure. 
We  come  forward  on  this  occasion  with  clean  breasts.  Yery 
likely  we  may  not  fit  the  knuckle  of  either  side :  that  we  cannot 
help,  while  we  reconcile  our  humble  efforts  to  our  own  consciences. 
This,  you  will  say,  is  valiant  for  me.  Probably  I  do  wax  valiant, 
when  I  know  that  every  statement  of  facts,  or  allusion  to  them, 
which  we  are  compelled  incidentally  to  put  forward,  is  authorized 
by  historians  whom  both  sides  are  bound  to  admit ;  and  nothing 
can  be  objected  to  us,  which  must  not  also  be  objected  to  Dal- 
rymple,  or  Harris,  or  Burnet,  or  Hume,  or  Smollet,  or  “  J ames’s 


14 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


Memoirs,”  or  “  Walker’s  Diary  of  the  Siege  of  Derry,”  witb 
many  other  general  and  local  histories. 

When  our  historical  people  speak  on  historical  points,  we  have 
given  them,  as  often  as  possible,  the  words  that  history  puts  into 
their  mouths,  and  never  one  word  which,  in  our  opinion,  is  not 
authorized  by  their  characters,  sentiments,  or  actions.  In  the 
latter  instance,  they  may  be  conceived  to  utter  thoughts  and  feel¬ 
ings  too  vivid  for  some  who,  at  one  side  or  the  other,  love  not 
them,  nor  their  thoughts,  nor  their  feelings ;  but  we  may  plead 
that  a  dramatist,  while  trying  to  give  natural  speech  to  his  char¬ 
acters,  is  not  accountable  for  all  they  choose  to  say. 

We  have  unhesitatingly  restored  to  their  true  shapes  and  fea¬ 
tures  all  those  we  have  found  disguised,  according  to  the  musty 
fanaticism  prevailing  nearly  two  centuries  ago  ;  and  we  hold 
ourselves  accountable  for  exercising  our  right  to  take  such  free¬ 
doms  with  the  dead  and  gone. 

And  now  get  the  three  unwieldy  volumes  printed  as  fast  as  our 
respected  northern  fellow-countryman,  Mr.  J.  M’Creery,  can 
manage  it — with  my  blessing  ;  and  my  request,  too,  that  concern¬ 
ing  the  point  upon  which  I  have  been  so  loquacious,  you  will  give 
yourself  no  further  trouble. 

Other  parts  give  me  more  uneasiness  ;  but  no  matter  now  ; 
let  them  pass  to  their  great  account. 

Heaven  help  us !  I  have  gone  near  to  frighten  myself,  by 
using  at  random  that  last  expression.  It  creates  a  very  uncom¬ 
fortable  sensation — a  kind  of  shuddering  about  the  seat  of  life. 

My  dear  Barnes, 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

ABEL  O’HARA. 

P.  S. — Apropos,  about  the  failing  at  the  heart  I  feel,  at  the 
idea  of  standing  before  the  dread  tribunal  we  are  facing,  in  the 
person  of  our  present  venture.  Doctor  Hummum  predicts  it 
will  be  worse  than  our  former  one,  although  that  was  bad  enough 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 


15 


he  says.  Bad  as  the  first  tales  were,  he  says,  we  are  now  about 
to  fellow  them.  How  can  he  and  Mr.  Mahony’s  literary  friends 
be  so  certain  ?  Have  you  ever  let  a  copy  out  of  your  hands, 
without  knowing  where  it  might  have  strayed  ?  I’m  sure  I  kept 
those  you  sent  me,  from  time  to  time,  close  enough  ;  yet  nothing 
can  be  more  assured  than  Doctor  Hummum’s  quiet,  settled,  and 
self-gratified  conviction.  Then  the  compression  of  Mr.  Mahony’s 
lips,  and  the  slow  up-and-down  motion  of  his  head,  confirmatory 
of  Doctor  Hummum’s  uncharitable  prejudgment !  This  goes  to 
my  heart ;  although  I  try  to  convince  myself  it  should  not  de¬ 
press  me  so.  Perhaps  it  is  a  fate,  or  a  rule  laid  down  by  the 
doctor,  and  accepted  by  his  friend — that  a  poor  author’s  second 
book  must  ever  fall  below  his  first.  If  so,  Heaven  help  us  ! 
I  say  again.  We  should  be  ungrateful,  indeed,  if  a  recollection 
of  the  highly  gratifying,  though,  I  fear,  too  high  praise,  with 
which  the  other  critics  have  treated  us,  did  not  serve  to  give  us 
hopes,  in  spite  of  Doctor  Hummum  and  Mr.  Mahony’s  prophecy. 
Doctor  Hummum’s  opinion  runs  counter  with  other  opinions,  I 
think  more  weighty  than  his  ;  and  he  may  be  mistaken. 

You  have  expressed  to  me  your  very  profound  sense  of  the 
kindness  and  encouragement  to  which  I  allude  ;  and  if  any  fitting 
opportunity  should  occur  for  making  our  joint  sentiments  known, 
I  hereby  request  of  you,  Barnes,  to  say,  in  your  name  and  mine, 
all  that  the  truest  gratitude  would  naturally  and  simply  lead  you 
to  Bay. 


A.  O’H. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1685,  that  a  party  of  travellers, 
suggesting,  in  the  group,  some  remarkable  contrast,  held  their 
way  from  Belfast  to  the  more  northern  and  ancient  fortress  of 
Carrickfergus. 

First  came,  on  a  jennet  and  steed,  of  the  best  kind  the 
country  afforded,  a  maiden  and  a  youthful  cavalier,  well  clad, 
well  favored,  and  exhibiting  in  their  air  that  certain,  though 
indefinable  something  which  proclaims  the  habits  and  feelings,  if 
not  the  birth  and  lineage,  of  gentle  maidens  and  gallant  cavaliers. 
The  damsel,  in  her  tight,  grass-green,  long-waisted,  jerkin,  laced 
and  fringed  with  silver ;  in  her  ample  cloth  riding-skirt,  of  a 
graver  color,  showing,  through  certain  openings,  glimpses  of  a 
rich  silken  under-dress  ;  in  her  low-crowned,  broad-leafed,  riding- 
hat,  flapped  down,  to  be  secured  under  the  chin ;  and,  above  all, 
in  the  very  delicate,  if  not  very  beautiful  face  beneath  it,  shaded 
by  loose  tresses  of  a  pale  gold-color  ;  she,  in  particular,  asserted, 
at  a  glance,  her  pretensions  to  gentle  rank.  And,  if  her  marbly 
cheek  and  melancholy  brow  did  not  well  become  a  sylph-like  girl 
of  sixteen,  perhaps  they  touched  the  bosom  of  a  beholder  with 
more  interest  than  could  the  radiance  of  a  sunny  face,  and  a 
laughter-looking  glance. 

He  who  rode  at  her  side,  and,  with  an  air  of  brotherly  and 
affectionate  protection,  occasionally  touched  her  rein,  was  not 
so  prepossessing  in  visage  or  figure,  though  he  was  almost  as 
young  as  his  sweet  charge.  His  features  were,  perhaps,  too 
rigidly  marked,  though  by  no  means  of  a  common  cast  ;  serious¬ 
ness,  without  pensiveness,  seemed,  at  all  events  now  that  he  re¬ 
mained  unexcited,  their  predominant  character.  But  his  figure, 


18 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


though,  even  in  boyhood,  more  square  and  manly  than  round  or 
graceful,  had  in  it  a  gallant  hardihood  that  recommended  him 
to  notice,  and  seemed  particularly  to  fit  the  brother  and  protector 
of  a  girl  so  delicate  and  fragile  as  she  who  rode  beside  him. 
This  impression  was  well  sustained  by  the  brave  dress  he  wore  ; 
by  his  fawn-colored  cavalier  hat,  looped  up  obliquely  in  front, 
and  adorned  with  a  long  feather  ;  by  his  close-buttoned  green 
surcoat,  moderately  slashed  in  the  upper  sleeve,  and  sufficiently 
short  to  show  the  knees  tightly  fitted  by  hose ;  while  a  graceful 
full-topped  half-boot  fell  midway  down  the  leg,  and  a  riding- 
cloak,  hung  off  one  shoulder,  flowed  over  the  saddle  or  fluttered 
in  the  light  breeze. 

Some  distance  behind  this  youthful  pair,  on  a  peaceably 
shaped  animal,  of  that  class  which  one  would  assign  to  parish 
clergymen  of  all  sects  who  do  not  hunt,  followed  a  very  short, 
round,  elderly  man,  whose  legs,  though  not  crippled  by  stirrup- 
leathers,  unusually  scanty,  reached  scarce  more  than  half-way 
down  the  sides  of  the  beast  he  bestrode.  And  those  legs  looked 
still  shorter,  on  account  of  the  descent  upon  them  of  the  over¬ 
abundant  skirts  of  the  good  old-fashioned  English  coat,  which, 
even  ere  Charles  I.  imported  the  costume  of  the  court  whose  in¬ 
fanta  he  failed  to  charm  away,  was  popular  in  the  sister- 
country.  Again,  their  full  proportion  was  interrupted  by  the 
square-toed,  high-heeled,  high-mouthed  shoes,  something  of  the 
cut  of  the  Blucher  boots  of  our  day  ;  so  that,  altogether,  not 
more  than  a  few  inches  of  leg  were  visible,  covered  by  clocked 
sky-blue  woollen  stockings.  A  full  tie  wig,  topped  by  that 
curious-shaped,  broad-brimmed,  pau-crowned  hat,  which  one  can¬ 
not  call  round,  square,  or  angular,  completed  the  costume  of  this 
remarkable  person.  His  little  paunch — little  in  comparison  with 
paunches,  but  huge  in  comparison  with  his  own  proportions — 
rested  on  the  brazen-nosed  pummel  of  his  pad.  There  appeared, 
in  the  oozing  of  his  vacant  purply  face,  in  the  distension  and 
rolling  of  his  gray  eyes,  in  the  hard  compression  of  his  lips,  and 
in  his  desperate  grasping  of  the  bridle,  indications  of  a  mind  not 
well  at  ease,  and  as  if  it  were  to  him  a  task  of  some  difficulty, 
and  much  bodily  torture,  to  sustain,  decently,  the  character  of  a 
cavalier. 

By  his  side,  on  a  steed  also  of  very  grave  conformation  and 
habits,  rode  a  man,  his  senior  in  years  and  his  contrary  in  per¬ 
son,  being  tall,  gaunt,  and  spare  in  the  limbs.  Behind  him,  on  a 
pillion,  sat  a  second  female,  quite  as  tall,  though  of  a  bulk  prom* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


19 


ising,  if  fairly  divided,  to  make  three  of  such  as  he  ;  the  pro* 
fusion  of  cloth  in  which,  down  to  the  toes,  she  was  enveloped, 
sening  to  give  even  an  exaggerated  notion  of  her  colossal 
figuie. 

From  the  vulgar  hardness  of  his  sharp  features,  as  well  as 
from  his  antique  coat  of  livery,  buttoned,  but  too  closely,  as  far 
down  as  the  hips  (thence  it  spread  into  voluminous  skirts),  over 
his  grayhound  body,  this  good  lady’s  conductor,  although  his 
great  trooper’s  boots  and  roundhead  hat  insinuated  a  foregone 
military  character,  might  easily  be  recognized  as  an  attendant. 
The  Amazonian  lady  herself  might  as  easily  pass  for  a  consider¬ 
able  personage — at  least  in  her  own  estimation.  The  impression 
was  not,  indeed,  conveyed  by  dignity  of  deportment,  or  even  the 
affectation  of  it,  but  rather  by  a  solemn,  fussy  expression  of 
countenance,  generally  seen  with  good  dames  who  talk  and  do  a 
great  deal  in  circles  which  are  bound  to  admit  their  preponder¬ 
ance,  and  who,  assisted  by  worldly  as  well  as  natural  requisites, 
have  a  talent,  without  positive  vociferation,  of  ruling  their 
humble  friends,  and  sometimes  their  husbands.  Behind  the 
whole  party,  followed  a  bare-legged  peasant  boy,  leading  a  sor¬ 
rowful  donkey,  across  whose  back  hung  two  large,  well-laden 
hampers. 

The  travellers  had  left  behind  the  curious  Cave  Hill,  that  al¬ 
most  overhangs  Belfast.  They  had  come  in  view  of  Carrickfer- 
gus,  with  its  ancient  and  well-fortified  castle,  standing  out  in  the 
bay,  on  a  nearly  insulated  rock, — an  object  by  no  means  deficient 
in  importance  or  picturesque  interest,  and  sympathizing  so  well, 
in  rudeness  and  largeness  of  parts,  with  the  primitive  pile  on 
which  it  was  based,  that  thus  beheld  at  a  distance,  both  masses 
seemed  one.  For  some  time  all  had  been  silent ;  except  that 
now  and  then  any  increased  motion  of  his  steed  called  from  the 
little  round  man  an  involuntary  groan,  immediately  after  which 
he  might  be  seen  turning  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  as  quickly 
as  he  could,  to  observe  whether  or  no  the  dame  on  the  pillion 
took  notice  of  his  ejaculation.  And  if,  as  was  indeed  the  case, 
during  all  such  accidents,  he  found  her  head  also  turned,  and  her 
eyes  fastened,  half  in  amaze,  half  in  severity  upon  him,  he  never 
failed,  after  another  twitch  of  feature,  to  look  on  straight  before 
him,  with  a  face  as  composed  and  unconscious  as  he  could  well 
assume.  These  interruptions  excepted,  silence  reigned  among  the 
party  until  they  had  gained  the  first  unobstructed  view  of  Car* 
rickfergus. 


20 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Then  the  two  young  persons  in  front  found  words  to  express 
their  sentiments  on  the  interesting  picture  ;  and,  that  topic  ex¬ 
hausted,  continued  to  converse  together.  It  appeared  from  their 
discourse  that  they  were  orphan  brother  and  sister  ;  that  the 
elderly  little  man  behind  them  was  their  uncle  and  guardian,  and 
the  gigantic  lady  his  spouse.  In  remark  upon  a  new  piece  of  in¬ 
formation  with  which  her  brother  supplied  her,  the  maiden  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  ask — 

“  Our  guardian’s  dame  is  of  London  city,  then  ?”  when  a  shrill 
exclamation  of  “  Paul,  Paul  1”  from  the  lady  herself,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  an  unusually  loud  groan  from  him  who,  nominally  at 
least,  was  her  lord  and  husband,  interrupted  the  brother’s  an¬ 
swer,  and,  had  Esther  Evelyn  been  skilled  in  accents,  might  have 
fully  proclaimed  to  her  the  genuine  city  derivation  of  her  aunt- 
in-law. 

Both  turned  their  horses’  heads  to  the  rear  ;  and,  “  Paul, 
Paul !”  the  dame  continued  ;  “  what’s  to  do  with  thee  now, 
sweetheart  ?” 

“  Naught,  coney,”  replied  Paul,  in  such  imperfect  delivery  as 
denoted  the  almost  total  absence  of  teeth  ;  “  naught,  truly,  only 
my  beast  stumbled.” 

“  And  let  him  stumble,”  Mrs.  Evelyn  went  on  contemptuously, 
“over  every  stock  and  stone  on  this  wild  road  ;  couldst  not  hold 
thy  hand  tight  on  the  rein,  and  the  breath  tight  in  thy  body,  and 
not  fright  folk  with  such  a  holloring  ?” 

“  I  but  feared  he  might  fall  outright,  Janet.  And  it  seemeth 
to  me,”  venturing  a  glance  downward,  “  I  am  at  such  a  height 
above  the  road,  that  it  might  have  done  me  an  injury,  forsooth.” 

“Tut,  no,  sweetheart,”  she  said  affectionately;  “thanks  to 
thy  good  wife’s  care,  thy  bones  are  so  well  wrapped  up,  it  would 
have  done  no  more  hurt  to  thee  than  to  a  bale  of  broadcloth.” 

He  made  no  answer,  contenting  himself  with  keeping  up  a 
decent  composure  of  face,  notwithstanding  the  refined  torture 
conferred  by  every  step,  even  the  gentlest,  of  his  steed.  The 
dame  continued  : 

“  Though  much,  doubtless,  is  the  peril  of  journeying  over  such 
roads,  in  such  a  country,  and  on  beasts  such  only  as  it  can 
afford  us.” 

“  They’re  just  too  good  fur  hur  likes,”  said  one  of  the  few 
native  peasants  of  the  district,  who  was  passing,  and  heard  the 
observation. 

“  There,”  remarked  Mrs.  Evelyn — using  gross  language,  no 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


21 


doubt,  yet  the  common  language  of  her  day,  even  in  parliament 
— ' “  there  goes  a  murdering  and  damnable  Papist.” 

“An’  there  hur  sits,  a  heretic  jade,  wid  the  fire  ready  kindled 
an’  roarin'  fur  hur,”  retorted  the  man,  also  using  the  charitable 
expressions  in  vogue  amongst  the  vulgar  and  bigoted  of  his  pei 
suasion.  At  the  same  time  he  turned  up  a  wild  bridle-road,  and 
left  them. . 

“  Ah !”  resumed  Mrs.  Evelyn,  airing  a  set  speech,  the  con¬ 
clusion  of  which  she  had  learned  from  public  manifestoes,  and, 
for  many  years  had  been  in  the  habit  of  rehearsing  ;  “  never 
can  the  land  have  roads  or  ways,  men  or  beasts,  as  it  should 
have  them,  until  Popery  and  slavery  be  rooted  out,  with  all 
Jesuits,  plotters,  and  suspected  persons.” 

“  Never,”  said  her  attendant,  who  rode  before  her,  also 
indulging  in  some  favorite  allusions,  while  his  sentiments  im¬ 
parted  to  his  long  and  wrinkled  face  its  hardest  expression  ; 
“  never,  till  the  auld  Forty-one  comes  round  again.  Whilk 
time,  as  an  humble  doer  for  the  Lord,  forbye  a  corporal 
muckle  in  favor  wi’  that  zealous  man,  though  an  Erastian,  Charles 
Coote,  I  returned  to  the  Papists  and  malignants,  hilt-deep,  the 
sword  they  had  unsheathed  amang  the  Lord's  people.” 

“The  Papists,”  Mrs.  Evelyn  went  on,  not  at  all  indulging  in 
commonplace,  “  who  plotted  their  damnable  plot  to  poisou  the 
king,  murder  us,  and  make  us  subjects  of  antichrist,  the  Pope  ; 
who  ran  through  the  body,  with  his  own  sword,  that  good  magis¬ 
trate,  Godfrey,  at  Primrose  Hill  ;  and  who  burned  down  the 
city,  till  the  flames  stopped  at  London  Bridge,  as  may  be  seen 
on  the  monument  to  this  day.”  (The  lady  spoke  truly,  not 
only  of  her  own  day,  by  the  way,  but  of  ours  ;  for,  there, 
indeed — a  century  at  least  after  all  men  who  can  read  or  think 
have  laughed  at  the  misstatement — there  it  remains  graven  in 
stone,  to  be  spelt  over  by  the  mere  ignorance  and  folly  of  the 
land,  and  perpetuated  on  minds  as  hard  as  the  stone  itself.) 

Young  Evelyn  had  not  been  indifferent  to  the  conversation 
here  noticed.  With  a  tone  he  might  properly  assume  to  an  old 
attendant  of  his  father,  though,  in  reality,  he  intended  the  re¬ 
monstrance  for  his  aunt-in-law,  he  now  said — 

“  Oliver,  it  were  wiser,  more  seemly,  and  more  Christian,  that 
you  forbore  such  observations.  The  times  are  altered — and  al¬ 
tered,  I  hope,  for  the  better — since  they  afford  opportunity  to 
men  of  all  parties  to  hold  out  to  each  other  the  hand  of  broth¬ 
erhood.  A  Popish  sovereign  now  fills  the  throne  of  these 


22 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


realms  ;  he  has  ascended  that  seat  of  his  fathers  in  peace  ;  and 
in  welcome,  too,  from  persons  of  every  persuasion — ” 

“  From  backsliders,  Papists,  and  malignants” — “from  plot¬ 
ters,  Papists,  and  Jesuits,”  interrupted  Oliver  and  Mrs.  Evelyn, 
in  a  breath. 

“  We  owe  him  our  allegiance,”  young  Evelyn  went  on  ;  “  with 
it  our  honor  and  respect.  And  it  cannot  be  respectful — no, 
nor  lawful — to  insult  with  our  speech  the  religion  our  sovereign 
chooses,  and  is  permitted  to  profess.” 

“Doubtless,  no,”  said  Uncle  Paul,  anxious  for  peace. 

“  What,  Paul !  what  say’st  thou  ?”  exclaimed  his  consort ; 
and  Paul  winced  more  than  if  his  fat  horse  had — which  it  could 
not  do — bounded  under  him  ;  “  honor  and  respect  for  that 
which  is  damnable  and  idolatrous,  plotting  and  murderous,  poi¬ 
soning,  burning,  and  jesuitical,  say’st  thou,  man  ?” 

“  N o  such  thing  do  I  say,”  replied  the  husband  meekly. 

“  He  wha  touches  pitch  is  defiled  thereby,”  said  Oliver,  “  and 
he  wha  denies  the  Lord  will,  in  his  day,  be  denied  by  Him. 
Wherefore,  anent  yon  man  James,  whom  malignants  and  Pa¬ 
pists,  Erastians  and  Prelatists,  call  king — ” 

“  What  mean’st  thou  by  prelacy,  fellow  ?”  interrupted  Mrs. 
Evelyn  ;  “  what  mean’st  thou  by  joining  that  with  Papists  and 
Jesuits,  Plo — ” 

“  And,.”  continued  Oliver,  raising  his  voice,  and  in  his  turn 
interrupting,  as  the  better  way  to  get  out  of  the  mistake  he 
soon  saw  he  had  committed — “  and  whom  they  go  forth  to  pro¬ 
claim  with  the  sounding  of  brazen  trumpets,  and  the  tinkling  of 
timbrels,  and  with  a  loud  voice  through  the  city,  and  a  cry  among 
the  people,  saying — ” 

“  Good-fellow,”  here  interposed  a  stranger,  wearing  a  close, 
black  cap,  and  a  full  riding-cloak — the  voice  sounding  just  at 
Oliver’s  ear,  and  startling  him,  although  the  speaker  had  for 
some  time  accompanied  the  party  unperceived — “good-fellow, 
if  you  do  not  hold  your  neck  to  be  too  straight,  or,  at  the  least, 
your  back  to  require  a  clawing,  best  keep  silence  so  near  yon 
loyal  town.”  The  travellers  had,  indeed,  now  approached  very 
near  to  Carrickfergus. 

“  What  have  I  said,  that  I  should  keep  silent  ?”  asked  Oliver, 
wrathfully,  and  still  half  nervous. 

“  Treason,”  replied  the  other,  “  if  ’twere  worth  the  telling.” 

“  Truth,”  retorted  Oliver,  “  and  the  words  of  truth.  Perad- 
renture  you  be,  yourself,  of  the  children  of  abomination,  th* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


23 


sons  of  darkness  and  of  Belial ;  but  even  to  thee  will  I  testify 
against  this  breaking  into  the  fold,  this  slumbering  and  back¬ 
sliding  of  the  shepherds — ” 

“  This  introducing  of  Popery  and  slavery,”  echoed  Mrs.  Eve* 
lyn. 

“  Silence,  Oliver  I”  cried  her  nephew-in-law. 

“  Fools !”  exclaimed  the  stranger,  in  a  tone  as  intemperate  as 
that  used  by  those  he  addressed  ;  “  fools  as  well  as  blasphemers 
and  heretics.” 

“  Heretics  !”  said  Oliver,  stopping  his  horse  to  confront  his 
new  companion  ;  “  whom  call  you  by  that  name,  brother  ?” 

“  You,  and  all  like  you,  who  have  departed  from  the  bosom 
of  Holy  Church,  to  set  up  the  false  lights  of  your  own  weak 
Judgment,  and  bow  down  before  them  in  presumptuous  self-wor¬ 
ship.” 

“  You,  and  all  like  you,”  rejoined  Oliver,  “  whether  Papists  or 
Prelatists.” 

“  Sirrah !”  exclaimed  his  burden,  turning  fiercely  on  her  con¬ 
ductor  ;  “  again  I  ask,  what  wouldst  thou  by  that  word  ?” 

“  Even  those,”  he  replied,  forgetting,  in  extreme  zeal,  his 
former  caution,  “  wha,  against  the  voice  of  the  Covenant,  give 
ear  to  the  words  of  men  in  sleeves  of  lawn,  and  long  garments, 
sic  as  are  called  bishops  aud  archbishops,  deans,  deacons,  and 
rectors  ;  poor  remnants  of  the  tricks  of  Satan,  and  the  decep¬ 
tions  of  the  scarlet — ” 

“  Beshrew  thy  knave’s  heart  !  thou  art  worse  than  a  Papist, 
thyself  J”  cried  Mrs.  Evelyn  ;  “  none  but  such  could  hold  such 
language  of  the  pure,  reformed  religion.” 

“  No  !”  said  the  stranger,  “  alas,  he  is  no  more  of  the  true, 
holy  faith,  than  thou,  thyself,  unhappy  woman !  I  know  you, 
now,  old  Noll  ;  you  were  yon,  at  the  Gobbins  heughs,  in  the 
Forty-one  alluding  to  the  massacre  of  Roman  Catholics,  dif¬ 
ferently  accounted  for,  which  took  place  in  Island  Magee  during 
the  dreadful  year  of  1641  or  1642. 

“  I  return  thanks  to  the  Lord  I  was,”  said  Oliver.  “  Wi* 
mickle  sorrow  that  on  that  good  night  you  stood  not  before  me. 
For  now  I  no  longer  doubt  you  ;  you  are  a  professed  Papist.” 

11 1  am  an  unworthy  son  of  Holy  Church,”  answered  the 
stranger,  devoutly  crossing  himself  ;  “  and  now  of  the  trium¬ 
phant  Church,  too. — Hark  to  that  !  Long  live  King  James  1” 
he  continued,  as  a  shout,  that  he  seemed  apt  at  interpreting, 
reached  them,  through  a  gate  of  the  town,  from  the  far  end  of 


24 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


a  street,  the  suburb  extremity  of  which  they  were  just  entering. 
At  the  same  time,  the  speaker,  letting  go  the  folds  of  his  cloak, 
which  he  had  hitherto  kept  closely  grasped,  displayed  the  habit 
of  a  Roman  Catholic  ecclesiastic  of  the  regular  order. 

“  A  travelling  friar  !”  exclaimed  Oliver. 

“  A  Jesuit  1  a  Jesuit  !”  screamed  Mrs.  Evelyn. 

“  And  now  I  know  you,  too,”  resumed  the  old  trooper ; 
“  your  name  is  O’Haggerty  ;  a  firebrand  amang  the  people  ;  a 
sore  affliction  to  the  Covenant  ;  and  weel  disposed  to  do  scaith 
on  my  head  for  the  words  I  have  spoken.  Do  thy  best — I  defy 
thee.” 

“  Heretical  idiot !”  said  the  young  friar,  for  young  he  was, 
and  of  a  tall,  robust  person,  and  rather  coarse  features,  “  for 
the  sake  of  the  well-intentioned  youth  who  is  thy  master,  and 
whose  remonstrance  with  thee  I  have  heard,  and  also  for  the 
sake  of  yon  sweet  and  delicate  young  lady,  whose  health  and 
spirits  do  not  seem  well  to  brook  such  wrangling,  I  will  spaie 
you.  Your  ancient  companion  I  spare  for  her  own  sake  ;  this 
is  a  day  of  triumph,  not  of  struggle.  Attend  to  what  is  now 
to  be  acted,  and  suffer  in  spirit  all  I  could  wish  to  inflict.”  At 
these  words,  the  ecclesiastic  gave  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  the  crowd  that,  amid  a  great  din  of  shouting,  ac¬ 
companied  by  the  squeak  of  a  cracked  trumpet,  and  the  rub-a- 
dub  of  an  old  kettle-drum,  on  which  a  fresh  sheep-skin  had  just 
been  badly  strained  for  the  occasion,  advanced  towards  the  trav¬ 
ellers. 

Our  party  were  obliged  to  draw  up  inside  the  rude  gate  of 
the  town  which  they  had  just  entered,  in  order  to  give  place  to 
the  throng,  that  almost  immediately  halted  about  the  spot. 

Thus,  however,  they  were  afforded  opportunity  to  observe  what 
was  going  forward.  In  the  centre  of  the  concourse,  Evelyn 
could  recognize  the  mayor  of  the  town,  attended  by  the  recorder, 
sheriffs,  aldermen,  burgesses,  and  the  other  corporate  and  official 
persons,  all  in  their  u  formalities,”  and  on  horseback.  Before 
them  was  the  town-clerk,  accompanied  by  the  trumpeter,  as 
crazy  as  his  instrument,  and  the  drummer,  as  wrinkled  as  his 
sheep-skin  ;  and,  after  a  pause,  this  important  officer  crying 
silence,  proceeded  to  read,  in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  vile  pronuncia¬ 
tion,  made  up  of  two  parts  of  Scotch,  and  one  of  Irish  brogue, 
a  paper  that  proclaimed  James  the  Second,  king.  All  had  stood 
uncovered  during  his  oration  ;  and  at  the  end,  the  mayor,  re¬ 
corder,  etc.,  joined  in  his  “  God  save  King  James  1”  waving  their 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


25 


cocked  hats,  their  wands,  and  other  badges  of  office  ;  whilst,  at 
the  same  time,  the  ever  willing  crowd  threw  up  their  greasy 
caps,  and  contributed  three  separate  shouts. 

Evelyn  looked  attentively  to  try  if  he  could  discover  in  the 
faces  of  the  officials,  or  of  the  crowd,  much  hidden  opinion  at 
variance  with  this  outward  manifestation  of  joy  ;  but,  among 
the  former,  his  physiognomic  skill  did  not  enable  him  to  detect 
any  contradiction.  Even  the  crowd,  though  in  that  northern 
town  chiefly  Protestants  of  one  sect  or  other,  seemed  generally 
sincere  and  gratified.  On  their  outskirts,  indeed,  might  be  ob¬ 
served  more  than  one  inferior  group  of  old  and  young,  male  and 
female,  individuals  after  the  hearts  of  Noll  and  Mrs.  Evelyn, 
who  joined  but  faintly,  or  not  at  all,  in  the  common  shout,  their 
heads  turned,  and  their  eyes  fixed  scoffingly  on  the  corporate 
officers,  or  as  scoffingly,  and  more  expressively,  on  each  other. 
But  such  variations  from  the  prevalent  feeling,  Evelyn  did  not 
fail  to  set  down  as  the  exceptions  that  attend  every  general 
rule,  and  most  particularly  every  general  rule  in  religious  poli¬ 
tics.  He  omitted,  indeed,  to  consider  them  as  the  unnoticed 
sparks  that,  after  a  half-consumed  city  is  supposed  to  be  safe 
from  further  harm,  still  live  in  the  midst  of  security,  awaiting 
but  the  breath  of  a  fresh  wind,  or  merely  the  progress  of  their 
own  ignition,  to  burst  forth  in  treble  vigor. 

But,  so  far  as  his  calculations  at  present  went,  Evelyn  was 
eorrect.  Since  the  monstrous  excesses  committed  on  both  sides 
in  the  year  1641,  and  afterwards  on  one  side  only,  by  the  ruth¬ 
less  Cromwell,  Ireland  had,  down  to  the  moment  we  speak  of, 
enjoyed  more  peace,  or,  at  all  events,  rest,  than  could  be  recol¬ 
lected  in  her  previous  history,  from  the  time  of  Henry  II.  The 
efforts  to  set  aside  Cromwell’s  settlement,  gave,  iudeed,  a  slight 
ruffle  to  the  national  tranquillity.  But  when  that  great  question 
became  decided,  and  that  the  disappointed  Catholics  were  con¬ 
tent  to  bear  in  silence  the  bitterness  of  the  arbitrary  decision 
which,  from  the  son  of  Charles  I.,  they  saw  little  reason  to 
expect,  all  parties  relapsed  into  quietness,  and  seemed  willing  to 
tolerate,  if  not  esteem  each  other.  In  aid  of  this  sentiment, 
now  came  the  lively  declarations  of  intended  impartiality  and 
protection,  made  by  the  new  king  to  his  privy  council,  on  behalf 
of  his  Protestant  subjects  ;  the  good  hopes  of  a  happy  reign 
derived  therefrom  by  all  sects  in  the  mother  country,  and  the 
sincere  expressions  of  loyalty  and  attachment  consequently 
manifested  in  addresses  from  each,  could  not  fail  to  command  a 

2 


26 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


correspondent  feeling  throughout  Ireland.  Men  were  tired,  too, 
of  a  mere  religious  struggle,  principally,  perhaps,  on  account  of 
the  hopelessness,  at  any  side,  and  after  considerable  efforts  on 
all  sides,  of  religious  extermination.  Since  they  could  trust 
their  prince,  they  seemed  indifferent  to  his  worshipping  God 
after  his  own  fancy.  And  thus  the  mixed  crowd  that,  in  a 
small  town  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  shouted  up  James  the  Sec¬ 
ond,  might  be  heard  re-echoing  the  watchword  of  security  which 
then  ran  through  all  the  British  realms,  “We  have  the  word 
of  a  prince  ;  a  pledge  never  broken.  Long  live  King  James  I” 

Yet  were  there  non-contents:  among  them,  none  more  consist¬ 
ent  than  Oliver  and  Mrs.  Evelyn,  and,  so  long  as  he  remained 
under  her  jurisdiction,  Paul,  her  spouse.  As  the  party  stood 
looking  on,  Evelyn  waved  his  hat  and  cheered  ;  but  his  aunt-in¬ 
law  scowled  at  the  town-clerk,  and  once,  when  in  some  evident 
return  of  displeasure  he  met  her  eye,  she  shook  her  head  and 
hand  at  him,  uttering  words  that  it  was  perhaps  well  for  her  the 
noise  of  acclamation  completely  drowned.  Oliver,  too,  though 
contenting  himself  with  severe  silence,  remained  covered,  till  a 
person,  passing  on  horseback,  twitched  off  his  hat,  and  cried, 
“  Shout,  Roundhead,  shout !” 

.  “There’s  na  muckle  treason  in  a  guarded  mouth,”  replied  the 
old  Covenanter,  coolly  taking  his  hat  from  some  benevolent  per¬ 
son  who  had  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

“  Look  on,  and  you  shall  soon  know,”  resumed  the  voice  of 
the  youug  friar,  now  recognizable  ;  and  he  again  turned  off  to 
join  the  crowd. 

The  corporate  procession  had  begun  to  return  down  the  street, 
in  progress  to  some  other  established  place  from  which  to  make 
its  proclamation,  when  a  portion  of  the  people  whom  the  friar 
joined  and  spoke  to  for  a  moment,  separated  from  the  rest,  and, 
hoisting  an  individual  astride  on  a  pole,  advanced  with  him,  borne 
on  their  shoulders,  towards  the  travellers. 

“  That’s  ridin 9  the  stang ,”  observed  the  urchin  who  had  in 
charge  the  donkey  and  hampers. 

“  And  what  means  it  ?”  inquired  Evelyn. 

We  answer  for  the  boy,  by  informing  the  reader,  first,  that  the 
phrase,  translated  into  English,  meant  riding  upon  a  sting,  as,  we 
presume,  the  galling  seat  of  the  rider  might  justly  be  called  ; 
second,  that  it  was  a  local,  popular  punishment,  inflicted  by 
proxy  for  such  offences  as  were  not  cognizable  at  common  law, 
Some  low  fellow,  representing  the  offender,  was  mounted,  as  in 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


27 


the  instance  to  be  noticed,  upon  a  pole,  and  thus  making  avowals, 
in  the  name  of  the  real  aggressor,  of  his  adopted  guilt,  was 
carried  about  the  streets,  until  at  last  he  reached  the  house  of 
the  delinquent,  where  he  proclaimed  anew  the  misdemeanor 
which  had  given  offence,  and  then,  with  loud  shouts,  the  ceremo¬ 
nial  ended. 

“  An’  its  ridin’  the  stang,”  continued  the  donkey’s  guardian, 
“  only  yon  thief  isn’t  the  true  one,”  and  he  looked  up  signifi¬ 
cantly  at  Oliver. 

The  minor  crowd  approached  with  their  burden,  a  very  nasty, 
ill-looking  fellow  ;  and,  ere  our  travellers  could  follow  down  the 
street  the  main  body  of  the  people,  they  were  again  surrounded. 

“  Wha  are  you?  wha  are  you  ?”  cried  many  voices  to  him  on 
the  pole,  as  they  halted  before  the  party. 

“  Wha  am  I  but  auld  Noll,  that  was  a  militia  trooper  in  the 
Forty-one  ?”  he  answered. 

“Thou  liest,  even  as  the  prince  of  lies,  wha  is  thy  father,”  said 
Oliver,  calmly  scowling  at  his  ragged  representative.  The  crowd 
took  no  notice,  but  continued  :  “  Make  full  and  penitent  proc¬ 
lamation  of  the  guilt  whilk  gars  you  ride  the  stang  !” 

“  And  what  for  no,  since  I  hae  gotten  the  grace  to  repent  me  ? 
I  just  ride  the  stang  anent  yon  time  when  I  would  na  doff  my 
bonnet  for  good  King  Jamie,  foul  fa’  me  for  a  graceless  loon, 
that  did  na  better  mind  it  !” 

“  And  do  ye  mind  it  noo  ?  and  wha  is  king,  noo  ?” 

“  King  Jamie  the  Second  is  king,  and  I,  Noll  Whittle,  of  the 
Forty-one,  I  mind  it  week  Huzza  for  King  Jamie  !” 

“  Huzza  !  huzza !  huzza  !”  echoed  the  crowd,  as  releasing  their 
substitute  criminal,  they  followed  rapidly,  and  with  loud  peals  of 
laughter,  the  main  concourse  ;  Oliver  just  commanding  as  much 
prudence  as  made  him  feel  that  it  might  be  inconvenient  to  suffer 
himself  to  be  provoked  into  overt  words  of  disloyalty.  But  not 
so  Mrs.  Evelyn,  who,  despite  the  mortal  fears  of  her  husband  (in 
suspiciot  that  a  trot  over  the  paving-stones,  on  the  stang,  would 
be  more  inconvenient  even  than  the  paces  of  his  steed),  and  the 
earnest  expostulations  of  her  husband’s  nephew,  continued  to 
vent  her  zeal  and  wrath  as  the  party  moved  down  the  street,  ii 
quest  of  a  house  of  entertainment. 

“  Cross  me  not,  nephew,”  she  said,  as  they  passed  by  the  pier 
or  quay  wall,  and  rather  near  to  it ;  “a  woman,  at  least,  can  use 
her  tongue.” 

“  Troth  can  she,”  said  the  bare-legged  attendant,  coming  back 


28 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


from  a  group  of  people  whom  he  had  interrogated  as  to  the 
meaning  of  a  second  approaching  clamor — “troth  can  she,  if 
she  likes  the  rest  o’t ;  mind  this,  jest,”  pointing  to  the  noisy 
throng  that  now  passed  our  travellers. 

In  the  centre  was  an  old  woman  of  very  low  stature,  and 
mean  apparel,  whom  the  united  efforts  of  three  strong  men, 
obviously  town-bailiffs,  could  scarce  drag  onward  towards  the 
quay-wall :  although  two  of  them  held  each  a  hand  of  the  pigmy 
fury — a  necessary  measure  to  prevent  a  renewal  of  the  favors 
which  it  was  evident  those  hands,  assisted  by  their  proper  nails, 
had  recently  conferred  on  their  faces — and  although  the  third 
exerted,  by  passing  a  rope  round  her  waist,  considerable  influ¬ 
ence  over  her  motions,  she  tugged  and  twisted,  and  jumped  up 
and  down,  and  to  one  side  and  the  other,  making  various  at¬ 
tempts  to  bite  with  the  few  teeth  she  had  left  ;  or  bending  her 
body,  and  opposing  the  amazing  resistance  of  her  strength  and 
weight,  little  as  both  might  appear  to  be,  suffered  herself  to  be 
trailed  a  few  steps  on  her  heels  or  knees  ;  her  features  all  the 
while  distorted  with  frenzy  ;  her  stringy  neck  swollen  like  a 
bundle  of  small  ropes  ;  her  clothes  torn  and  bemired,  and  her 
once  shrill  pipe  grown  hoarse  with  execration. 

“Let  me  go  1  let  me  go  !”  she  exclaimed  in  passing,  “ye 
tools  and  ministers  of  Beelzebub,  ye  uphauders  of  abomination, 
ye  servants  and  torturers  for  Sathan  1  To  the  water’s  brink  ye 
shall  never  gar  me  go  1  I  will  hae  strength  for  resistance  ;  yea, 
the  strength  that  comes  frae  above  is  given  me  ;  let  me  go,  ye 
outcasts !  ye  castaways  !  ye  Papists  and  malignants  !  I  say  to 
you  he  is  no  king,  but  a  fause  idol  set  up  for  saul-killing  worship  I 
I  uplift  my  voice — ” 

“  On  with  her  !  on  with  her !”  cried  a  person  higher  in  author¬ 
ity  than  the  bailiffs,  and  looking  like  the  mayor’s  clerk.  “  Come 
along,  old  Alice,  and  be  thankful  for  the  mercy  that  decrees  you 
but  this  punishment  ;  to-day  you  have  spoken  treason,  for  which 
the  twisting  of  your  old  neck  were  proper  reward,  only  that  his 
worship’s  honor  is  too  Christian-like,  and  judging  your  clack  but 
as  the  clack  of  a  common  scold,  wills  you  no  more  than  the  quieting 
of  one.  Silence  in  the  court,  till  the  town  law  for  such  offence 
be  read!” 

And  thereupon  this  person  read  from  a  paper  he  held  in  his 
hand,  often  interrupted  by  the  violence  of  Alice,  the  following 
Carrickfergus  statute : 

“October,  1575,  Ordered  and  agreede,  by  the  whole  court, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


29 


that  all  manner  of  skoldes  which  shal  be  openly  detected  of 
6kolding,  or  evil  wordes  in  manner  of  skolding,  and  for  the  same 
shal  be  condemned  before  Mr.  Maior  and  his  brethren,  shal  bo 
drawne  at  the  sterne  of  a  boate  in  the  water,  from  the  end  of 
the  peare  rounde  abought  the  queenes  majesties  castell,  in  man¬ 
ner  of  ducking,  and  after,  when  a  cage  shal  be  made”  (“  it  has 
been  ready  these  hundred  years,”  remarked  the  mayor’s  officer, 
parenthetically),  “  the  party  so  condemned  for  a  skolde  shal  be 
therein  punished  at  the  discretion  of  the  maior.” 

A  general  shout  followed  the  promulgation  of  this  salutary 
law  ;  and  once  more,  Alice,  who  had  had  the  advantage  of  a 
halt  while  it  was  reading,  experienced  the  attentions  of  the  bai¬ 
liffs,  her  voice  now  completely  unheard  in  the  grand  uproar,  and 
her  resistance  proving,  from  exhaustion,  less  than  before.  Yet, 
ere  she  quite  passed  from  the  place  on  which  our  travellers  had 
drawn  up,  she  made  one  final  effort,  in  the  shape  of  an  appeal 
for  the  intercession  of  all  the  Lord’s  people. 

“  To  so  many  of  ye  as  have  heard  the  word,  and  now  hear 
me,  I  uphaud  my  voice  for  a  deliverance  !  Tak  me  out  of  cap¬ 
tivity,  and  let  your  hands  undo  the  bonds  of  a  hard  bondage ! 
Ha  I”  she  continued,  recognizing  an  old  acquaintance,  “  sit  you 
there  on  a  war-horse,  armed  to  go  forth  and  conquer,  and  winna 
you  smite  wi’  the  sword,  Oliver  Whittle,  in  my  cause,  and  in 
the  cause  of  a  broken  Covenant  V* — another  long  tug  forward, 
which,  notwithstanding  his  sincere  zeal,  Oliver  did  not  regret— 
“  and  the  winsome  leddy  that  bides  on  the  back  part  of  the  steed 
ahint  you.”  The  bailiffs  looked  ominously  at  Mrs.  Evelyn  ; 
Paul  also  looked  at  his  consort — she  was  pale  as  death.  “  Ob, 
winna  she  uplift  her  voice  for  the  Lord’s  bondswoman  ?  Avoid 
ye,  evil  ones !” — another  successful  tug.  “  Agents  of  darkness  ! 
hell-servants ! — let  me  go  !  let  me  go !” 

Her  voice  here  became  finally  lost,  and  all  resistance,  too, 
seemed  at  an  end,  for  the  bailiffs,  and  the  whole  crowd  around 
her,  hurried  on  with  increased  rapidity,  amid  the  screaming  of 
women,  the  piping  of  children,  and  the  barking  of  a  hundred 
curs.  Evelyn  and  his  sister  then  turned  their  horses  towards  a 
house  of  entertainment ;  and  Mrs.  Evelyn,  Uncle  Paul,  and 
Oliver  followed  in  profound  silence  ;  the  titter  of  the  donkey’s 
guide,  and  almost  at  the  same  time  a  lengthened  bray  from  the 
donkey’s  self,  being  the  only  sounds  uttered  by  any  of  the  crest¬ 
fallen  party. 


30 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  II. 

As  evening  approached,  the  travellers  resolved  to  spend  that 
night  in  Carrickfergus.  After  they  had  together  partaken  of 
an  early  supper,  Oliver  being  allowed  to  sit  at  a  corner  of  the 
table,  they  separated  into  distinct  parties.  Mrs.  Evelyn  and  her 
husband — we  always  put,  by  impulse,  the  dame’s  name  first — 
fell  asleep,  opposite  each  other,  in  two  rude  armchairs ;  Oliver 
Whittle  stalked  out  of  the  room  to  seek  his  own  chamber,  and 
there  pour  forth  his  soul  in  extempore  prayer  ;  and  young  Evelyn 
and  his  sister  adjourned  to  a  private  sitting-room,  where  some  dis¬ 
course  occurred  between  them,  which,  as  during  this  evening  of 
inaction  we  think  it  useful  for  our  purposes,  the  reader  will  be 
pleased  to  peruse,  in  a  very  short  chapter. 

“Nothing  interests  you,  Esther,”  said  the  young  gentleman; 
“  that  is  too  evident.  You  answer  my  questions,  indeed,  or  agree 
in  my  remarks,  or  even  start  one  of  your  own  ;  but  the  sigh  that 
always  closes  your  lips  tells  how  indifferent  to  your  thoughts  is 
the  passing  discourse  ;  and  despite  my  assurance  of  your  affection, 
almost  tempts  me  to  fear  that  even  my  own  presence  is  indifferent.” 

The  young  lady  smiled  faintly,  but  very  sweetly,  as  she  an¬ 
swered  : 

“  Robert,  that  you  must  not  say.  God  knows,  except  yourself, 
there  is  now  no  being  on  earth  dear  to  the  heart  of  Esther  Evelyn.” 

“  Again  that  heavy  sigh,  dearest  Esther,  and  that  sad  droop¬ 
ing  of  your  head — how  shall  I  reconcile  these  symptoms  with 
your  words?  Were  we  not  brother  and  sister,  I  might  be  at 
liberty  to  reconcile  them  by,  doubtless,  a  very  flattering  infer¬ 
ence  ;  but  you  know  you  must  not  be  in  love  with  me,”  he 
added,  in  a  little  effort  to  rally  her  spirits.  She  smiled  again 
with  more  animation  than  before,  and  her  brother  continued  : 

“  And  this  minds  me  of  a  question  I  have  once  or  twice  in¬ 
tended  ;  but  look  honestly  at  me,  Esther,  that  I  may  judge  from 
your  eyes  and  cheeks,  rather  than  from  your  words,  of  the  fact.” 
She  turned  her  face  up  in  calm  surprise,  and  looked  fully  at  her 
brother.  “Ay,”  he  resumed,”  excellently  acted;  be  sure,  all 
this  convinces  me,  you  do  not  even  guess  what  I  would  ask. 
Well,  well,  no  use  of  any  more  amazement,  I  am  convinced  ; 
and  now,  fair  sister,  is  your  little  heart  still  your  own  ?” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


31 


“  You  mean,  am  I  in  love,  as  it  is  called,  with  any  one  V 1  she 
asked  simply  and  quietly. 

“  Even  so  ;  in  love,  as  it  is  called.” 

“  Indeed,  indeed,  brother,  I  am  not.” 

“  Never  yet  saw  the  man  you  could  love  ?” 

“  Yourself  apart — for  we  talk  not  now  of  brother’s  and  sister’s 
love  ;  and  since  an  event  I  cannot  name” — tears  gushed  from 
her  eyes — “  never,  brother,  never.” 

“  My  dearest  Esther,”  the  brother  continued,  much  affected 
also,  “  this  endless  and  unavailing  sorrow  is  sinful  and  selfish. 
No,  not  selfish,  I  did  not  mean  that ;  but  how  unfortunate  I  am 
in  all  my  little  efforts,  Esther,  to  amuse  you  !  Even  now  I  be¬ 
lieved  I  had  chosen  a  theme  as  wide  as  possible  from  any  afflict¬ 
ing  recollection,  yet  how  unhappy  it  has  proved !  For  God’s 
sake,  sister,  for  both  our  sakes,  take  up  the  consolation  that 
religion  enjoins,  and  that  your  duties  and  affections  make  im¬ 
perative.” 

“  I  have  struggled  to  take  it  up,  brother  ;  but  you  know  I  am 
not  in  very  good  health.  Along  with  being,  or  having  cause  to 
be,  unhappy.  And  the  weakness  of  the  body  increases  the  weak¬ 
ness  of  the  mind,  and  the  sorrows  of  the  heart.  But  when  I  get 
better  you  shall  see  a  change.” 

“  Thanks,  Esther,  I  expected  no  less  from  you  ;  and  you  shall, 
you  must,  get  well.  Your  youth,  your  prospects,  and  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  this  seashore  residence,  whither  we  are  journeying — 
every  thing,  to  say  naught  of  a  brother’s  love  and  duty — every 
thing  must  give  you  the  health  and  spirits  you  merit  to  enjoy. 
But  how  now  ?” 

Notwithstanding  the  maiden’s  effort  to  suppress  her  feelings, 
the  string  of  her  griefs  having  been  once  touched,  she  could  not 
check  its  vibration.  While  her  brother  spoke,  her  head  drooped 
on  her  bosom,  her  hands  on  her  knees,  and,  in  a  shower  of  tears, 
she  exclaimed,  “  My  poor  father!” 

Evelyn  was  instantly  at  her  side  ;  but  he  did  not  now  offey  a 
word  of  consolation  or  remonstrance,  content  to  let  nature  ex¬ 
haust  her  own  paroxysm.  And  his  silence  was,  perhaps,  the 
best  appeal  to  his  sister’s  recollections,  which,  in  a  little  time, 
overcame  her  extreme  sorrow,  while  she  continued  to  address 
him. 

“I  am  weak,  Robert,  very  weak  and  blamable  ;  but  to  me, 
who  have  no  recollection  of  a  mother,  what  a  loss  was  that 
father  l — mother  and  father  together!  Never  had  child — that 


82 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


child  a  girl — such  a  parent.  You,  who  for  jour  education  and 
improvement  by  travel,  were  often  away  from  us — you  cannot 
imagine  half  his  tenderness  and  goodness ;  besides,  you  are  a 
man,  and  cannot  feel  half  so  desolate.” 

“  Being  a  man,  Esther,  the  more  my  joy  and  pride,  and  the 
less  should  you  feel  desolate,  when  I  am  your  brother  too.” 

She  admitted  the  force  of  this  remark,  and  once  more  looked 
up,  while,  although  it  came  through  tears,  her  smile  was  unusu¬ 
ally  brilliant,  as  she  replied  : 

“  It  is  so,  dearest  brother,  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  truly  selfish  and 
sinful  not  to  prove  I  know  it ;  for,  my  natural  return  of  affection 
for  affection  apart,  how  much  heavier,  indeed,  might  be  my  lot, 
had  I  not  such  a  protector — friend — relative !  I  know  not  how, 
Robert,”  she  continued,  “but,  although  his  connections  must 
ever  command  my  respect  and  esteem,  I  cannot  love  our  uncle 
and  aunt — not  with  the  fulness  of  heart  that  gives  satisfaction 
and  happiness.” 

“And  you  know,  dear  sister,  how  I  answer  you  on  that 
head.  Nothing  bad,  or  even  unkind,  have  I  seen  in  either  ; 
yet  assuredly,  enough  to  suppress  warm  affection.  It  is  dis¬ 
agreeable  to  observe  the  unwomanly  sway  our  aunt  holds  over 
our  uncle  ;  and  still  more  offensive  to  note  his  unmauly  taking 
of  it.  Then  her  religious  prejudices  are  too  strong ;  much  too 
strong  for  the  good  opinions  that  persons  of  all  creeds,  except 
the  ignorant  and  violent  on  every  side,  begin  to  entertain,  or 
wish  to  entertain  of  each  other.  I  did  not  think  that  one  pro¬ 
fessing  the  same  mild  reformed  faith  with  you  and  me,  could 
hold  such  rancor  as  our  aunt  does  hold  against  Papist  fellow- 
subjects,  especially  in  this  kingdom,  which — although  here  in  the 
north,  Presbyterians,  with  a  few  Episcopalians,  be  the  majority 
— is  almost  wholly  possessed  by  people  of  that  persuasion.  Such 
unchristian  and  unseemly  opinions,  if,  indeed,  opinions  they  may 
Ge  called,  ought  to  be  left  to  the  very  ignorant  among  the  Cov¬ 
enanters,  some  of  whom  live  around  us,  and  who  have  been  as 
remarkable  for  hostility  to  our  own  Church  as  to  that  which  our 
aunt  denounces.” 

“I  understand  little  of  these  matters,  Robert,  but  would 
gladly  be  guided  by  your  information  and  instructions.  He  who 
is  gone  never  cared  to  bring  such  subjects  before  me  ;  or  when 
he  did,  his  words  only  breathed  charity  and  forbearance  to  ali 
God’s  creatures.  Nevertheless,  many  have  instilled  into  my 
mind  a  fear  of  danger  to  our  good  religion  from  the  crowning  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


33 


a  Popish  king  ;  much  dislike,  I  know,  has  lately  been  shown 
against  the  duke.” 

“  The  king,  now,  Esther.” 

“  And  many  struggles  made  to  keep  him  from  the  succession  j 
— was  there  no  real  danger  ?  And  now  that,  as  you  say,  the 
obnoxious  duke  is  king,  is  there  none  ?” 

“  Wise  and  good  men  of  different  sects  see  none.  The  cry  of 
danger  was  raised  by  the  heads  of  a  party,  and  caught  up  by 
their  prejudiced  and  credulous  adherents.  But  that  party  is 
now  silenced  in  the  general  voice  of  the  nation,  which  hath  at 
length  broke  out  ;  and,  strengthened  by  King  James’s  own 
promises,  all  welcome  to  the  throne  of  his  fathers  a  king,  whose 
only  crime,  as  yet,  it  is  to  run  the  risk  of  their  displeasure  rather 
than  lay  down  his  conscience.” 

“  But  had  he  not  part  in  the  plot,  brother  ?” 

“  Even  when  the  plot  was  believed  to  exist,  his  worst  enemies 
did  not  directly  charge  him  with  a  part  in  it  ;  now  that  it  and 
its  promulgators  have  passed  into  disrepute,  there  can  be  less 
reason  for  objection  to  King  James  on  that  head.  I  see,  sister, 
you  have  taken  no  note — alas  !  why  should  you  ? — of  what  has 
lately  chanced  in  the  world ;  but  learn,  that  since  the  trial  and 
acquittal  of  Sir  George  Wakeman,  in  the  teeth  of  the  depositions 
of  that  human  monster,  Oates,  no  man  of  ordinary  reflection  or 
honor  places  reliance  on  his  assertions.  So  that  his  whole  plot, 
with  its  circumstances,  now  seems  but  a  terrible  fabrication, 
badly  and  clumsily  put  together,  with  all  the  flagrancy,  but  with 
not  a  particle  of  the  consistence  of  imposture.” 

“  Alas  !  and  is  it  only  now,  after  the  spilling  of  much  noble 
blood,  the  desolation  of  many  noble  families,  and  the  wrongfully 
accusing  of  millions  of  fellow-creatures — is  it  only  now  that  wise 
men  find  out  that  which,  had  they  eyes  in  season,  might  have 
saved  them  bitter  and  awful  recollections?” 

“  Only  now  ;  and  doubtless  the  credulity  that  blinded  them, 
heretofore,  and  the  rancor  that  begot  such  credulity,  make  the 
foremost  stain  on  the  reflective  and  merciful  character  of  the 
great  nation  whence  we  derive  our  ancestry.  Mayhap,  too,  of 
its  kind,  we  should  say,  the  only  one.” 

“  Yet,  even  now,  brother,  I  rejoice  to  be  set  right  on  this 
matter  ;  for  it  will  teach  me  a  kinder  thought  and  more  Chris¬ 
tian  bearing  towards  the  people  I  have  wronged  in  my  ill-formed 
judgment.  Would  that  our  aunt  could  hear  patiently  the  words 
I  have  heard  from  you  ! — yet,  living  in  the  world,  she  ought  to 

2* 


34 


THE  BOTNE  WATER. 


have  heard  them,  with  profit,  from  many  other  tongues  ;  and 
that  she  still  maintains  her  unchristian  temper  is  a  certain  cause 
for  my  withholding  the  love  I  before  told  you  I  could  not  pay. 
Indeed,  though  from  the  beginning  I  knew  my  feelings  towards 
tier,  this  is  the  first  true  ground  I  could  assign  to  rest  them  on. 
I  have  seen  so  little  of  our  aunt  and  uncle  that  my  knowledge  of 
them  must  be  little.  Ere  you  could  return  from  your  travels, 
after  our  sudden  loss,  I  mourned  alone  in  our  desolate  house,  by 
fair  Lough  Neagh  :  when  you  came,  we  mourned  together.  Our 
father’s  brother  and  his  lady  were  then  in  America,  as  I  was 
told,  and  a  year  elapsed  before  they  visited  us  ;  since  when,  only 
some  weeks  have  passed  to  make  my  observations  in.  But  you 
often  saw  them  in  England  and  in  Derry-city,  did  you  not  ?” 

“  Often  ;  yet  my  sentiments  of  them  are  the  same  with  yours.” 

“  How  chanced  it  that,  ever  since  I  was  a  giddy  child — in¬ 
fant  almost — I  did  not  see  my  uncle  in  our  father’s  house,  until 
his  late  visit,  made  to  assert  his  duties  as  our  guardian  ?” 

“  You  know,  sister,  that  as  eldest  brother,  our  father  suc¬ 
ceeded  to  the  almost  entire  possession  of  the  estate  bequeathed 
to  him  by  the  brave  ancestor,  who,  in  1112,  at  the  side  of  the 
great  De  Courcy,  lord  of  Ulster,  won  it  with  his  good  sword 
from  the  uncivilized  natives  of  this  northern  country.  Our 
uncle  being,  therefore,  without  competent  independence,  was 
forced  to  push  his  fortunes  in  the  world  by  means  of  mercantile 
pursuits  and  honest  industry.  Many  years  ago  he  settled  in 
London,  and  there  marrying  his  present  lady,  acquired  by  her, 
and  by  his  own  efforts,  much  wealth,  and  also  became  possessed 
of  ships,  which  our  Uncle  Jeremiah,  still  younger  than  he,  long 
commanded  in  their  voyages  to  and  from  the  western  continent 
and  islands.” 

“  I  remember  Uncle  Jeremiah  well ;  indeed,  I  know  him  well ; 
and,  I  believe,  love  him,  too,  better  than  our  newly-arrived  rela¬ 
tions  :  for,  although  somewhat  too  much  of  a  humorist,  I  think 
his  heart  warmer  and  his  maimer  kinder.  But  our  guardians 
have  been  some  time  in  Ireland,  residing  in  Derry-city,  as  I  have 
heard  ?” 

“  Yes  ;  settled  there  two  years,  or  thereabouts.  Before  their 
last  western  voyage,  their  wealth  was  applied  to  the  purchase 
of  lands  and  houses,  and  our  uncle  became  an  alderman  of  that 
city.  But  what  with  their  frequent  visits  to  England  ;  the 
retired  habits  and  different  style  of  mind  of  our  father  ;  and. 
withal,  the  bad  state  of  the  northern  roads  lying  between  Derry 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


35 


and  oar  residence,  so  irksome,  as  you  may  have  seen,  to  any 
but  youthful  travellers — it  is  not  matter  of  wonder  that,  since 
their  removal  to  Ireland,  our  uncle  and  aunt  should  not  ha  3 
visited  us.” 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  travellers  left  Carrickfergus  next  morning,  in  prosecution 
of  their  route  along  the  coast  to  the  little  village  where  Esther 
was  to  reside  for  the  advantages  of  change  of  air  and  sea¬ 
bathing. 

Passing  out  of  the  town  through  Glenarm,  or  Spittal-gate, 
one  of  four  then  existing  in  the  old  walls,  the  party  continued 
their  way  along  the  district  called  “  Scotch  quarters,”  from  a 
colony  of  Argyle  and  Gallowayshire  fishers,  who  came  over  in 
1665.  These  visitors  might  be  heard  alluding  to  “the  Irish 
folk,”  in  their  neighborhood,  with  a  mixed  air  of  indifference  and 
toleration,  such  as  would  have  been  more  natural  on  the  part  of 
the  natives  towards  themselves  :  this,  however,  was  only  a  spe¬ 
cimen  of  the  solemn  self-conceit  of  the  old  Puritans.  After  a 
few  miles’  riding,  our  friends  passed  the  limits  of  the  county  cor¬ 
porate,  or  county  palatine  of  Carrickfergus ;  for  the  district, 
although  included  in  the  county  Antrim,  and  extending  only 
about  four  miles  square,  has  an  independent  civil  existence,  thus 
variously  designated.  With  respect  to  the  last  designation,  it 
may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader,  on  the  authority  of  Spencer, 
that  counties  palatine  were  formed  after  the  first  colonization, 
and  granted  “  great  privileges,”  to  enable  the  settlers,  “  subject 
to  continual  invasions,”  to  defend  themselves  against  “  the  wildo 
Irish.”  And,  perhaps,  this  way  of  putting  the  question  of  colo¬ 
nial  residence  will  not,  on  reflection,  seem  a  whit  less  modest 
than  the  view  subsequently  taken  of  the  matter  by  the  Scotch 
adventurers,  which  has  beeu  mentioned. 

The  road  onwards,  as  well  as  that  from  Belfast  to  Carrickfer¬ 
gus,  lay  very  near  the  coast.  It  passed,  at  Kilroot,  a  quarry  of 
columnar  basalt  as  perfect  as  any  specimen  at  the  Giant’s  Cause¬ 
way,  although  the  distance  between  both  places  is,  at  least,  forty 
miles  ;  but,  at  the  time  of  this  tale,  the  quarry  had  not  been 
discovered.  Leaving  Island  Magee  to  the  right,  it  then  wound, 


36 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


rather  more  interiorly,  towards  the  village  of  Larne.  Of  Island 
Magee — which,  by  the  way,  is,  now  at  least,  no  island — notice 
has  already  been  taken,  as  the  scene,  about  the  year  1641,  of  a 
midnight  massacre,  perpetrated  by  some  Scotch  troops,  regard¬ 
less  of  sex  or  age,  on  the  primitive  and  unarmed  inhabitants.  It 
has  also  been  mentioned,  that  different  parties  gave  different  ac¬ 
counts  of  this  affair,  their  differences  chiefly  applying  to  its  date  ; 
and  this  date  involving  the  question  of  whether  or  no  it  was 
retaliation  or  unprovoked  aggression — one  of  the  consequences, 
or  one  of  the  causes  of  the  Irish  massacre,  upon  which  Hume  is 
so  indignantly  and  truly  eloquent.  In  the  main  facts,  however, 
that  the  slaughter  took  place,  and  that  those  slaughtered  were 
unoffending  and  unwarfike  people,  all  writers  agree  ;  except, 
indeed,  Hume  himself,  who,  amid  the  splendor  of  his  angry  rhet¬ 
oric,  while  holding  up  to  the  detestation  of  ages  the  atrocities  of 
Irish  bigots,  omits  to  mention  the  atrocities  (committed  at  the 
very  same  time)  of  Scotch  bigots.  Though  before  he  gave  way 
to  passion,  and  indulged  in  his  imperfect  statement,  it  might  be 
supposed  that  historical  dignity  called  on  him  to  seek  out  or 
recollect  the  attendant  truths  that  might  have  served  to  check 
the  one  and  enlarge  the  other.  But  we  digress.  The  principal 
facts  admitted  on  all  hands,  men  whose  views  of  human  nature 
are  not  controlled  by  the  prejudices  of  a  country,  a  time,  or  a 
sect,  will  care  little  about  the  minor  contradictions,  however  fer¬ 
vently  they  may  be  urged.  The  side  that  retaliates  a  barbarity, 
is  surely  little  better  than  the  side  that  originates  one  ;  and  we 
allude  to  the  circumstance  only  for  the  purpose  (as  is  our  duty 
or  the  necessity  of  our  plan)  of  placing  before  the  reader  a  true 
and  real  picture  of  the  general  state  of  men’s  minds  and  feelings 
some  years  previous  to  the  time  in  which  the  events  and  person? 
of  our  story  are  to  occur  and  act.  Perhaps  the  unhappy  matter 
should  not  at  all  have  been  noticed,  but  that  in  getting — acrosr 
the  little  gulf  that  separates  Island  Magee  from  the  mainland— 
a  glance  at  the  spot  on  which  it  happened,  a  grim  and  recollec¬ 
tive  smile  struggled  through  the  hard  features  of  Oliver  Whittle. 

At  about  the  same  moment,  others  of  the  party  were  enjoying 
another  view  of  at  least  more  harmless  and  agreeable  impression. 
It  was  formed  by  different  points  of  the  mainland  to  the  right, 
and  of  the  promontory,  as  it  may  more  truly  be  called,  to  the 
left,  sweeping  into  the  gulf,  at  different  distances,  and  all  wearing 
the  family  likeness  that,  not  disagreeably,  however,  characterizes 
basalt  hills.  That  is  to  say,  an  almost  flatness  on  the  tops,  con 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


37 


tinued  along  the  extent  of  the  outline,  and  just  when  they  were 
about  to  shoot  into  the  water,  or  dip  to  the  plain,  an  abrupt 
convex  curve.  The  point  that,  nearer  than  the  middle  distance, 
concealed  the  village  of  Larne,  also  concealed,  from  its  stretching 
out  to  meet  the  opposite  headland,  a  continuous  view  of  the  sea. 
And  thus  the  gulf  had  quite  the  appearance  of  an  extensive 
l  ike,  bound  up  by  those  successive  piles  of  precipice,  of  which 
Ballygelly  Head  and  Garron  Point  were  the  most  imposing. 

Continuing  their  route,  the  travellers,  leaving  to  the  left  some 
close  scenery  of  mixed  beauty  and  ruggedness,  halted  and  took 
refreshments  at  Larne ;  and  soon  after  proceeded  to  Glenarm. 
The  road  from  Belfast  to  Carrickfergus,  had — to  do  common 
justice  to  Mrs.  Evelyn’s  past  observations — been  bad  enough ; 
from  Carrickfergus  to  Larne  it  was  worse  ;  but  from  Larne  on¬ 
ward  it  was  worst  of  all.  Not  to  speak  of  its  ruggeduess,  it 
scaled,  in  the  first  instance,  the  barrier  (a  little  inward)  of  Bally¬ 
gelly  Head,  looking,  when  seen  even  from  the  brow  of  an  intro¬ 
ductory  ascent,  as  if  it  ran  zig-zag  for  mere  wantonness,  higher 
than  birds  of  grave  habits  need  desire  to  fly.  Then  there  was  a 
descent,  of  course  ;  again,  a  tremendous  rise  ;  and,  more  pro¬ 
voking  than  all,  a  second  descent  into  the  village,  upon  the  slope 
of  which,  the  fat  horses  of  the  elder  party,  particularly  that 
which  bore  the  double  weight  of  Oliver  and  Mrs.  Evelyn,  could 
scarce  find  footing.  Of  the  increased  contortions  of  face  and 
multiplied  groans  of  Paul,  little,  therefore,  need  be  said ;  or, 
except  when  a  moment  of  utter  peril  caused  her  to  keep  in  her 
breath,  of  the  incalculable  velocity  of  his  good  lady’s  tongue. 
There  never  were  such  roads,  she  averred,  nor  such  a  country,  up 
and  down,  hill  and  hollow,  nor  such  a  people,  that  would  not 
level  it.  In  the  neighborhood  of  London,  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  there  was  but  one  hill,  and  that  you  need  not  climb  if  you 
did  not  like  ;  except  that  during  the  plague  the  citizens  were 
fain  to  have  recourse  to  it  for  safety,  being  forced  to  run  out  of 
the  city  ;  and  when  (according  to  an  old  poet,  rather  than 
Mrs.  Evelyn), 

“  Some  climbed  Highgate  Hill,  and  there  they  see 
The  world  so  large,  that  they  amazed  be.” 

But  what  chiefly  inconvenienced  Mrs.  Evelyn — and,  indeed,  irri 
tated  her  so  much  that  she  often  repeated  it — was  the  reflection 
of  the  utter  uselessness,  to  say  the  least,  of  creeping  up  one 
mountain,  and  scrambling  down  at  the  far  side,  solely  for  the 


38 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


purpose  of  creeping  up  and  scrambling  down  another  and  an¬ 
other.  But,  perhaps,  the  frequent  appearance,  to  her  right,  of 
the  great  sea,  caught  through  partial  depressions  of  a  continued 
line  of  rock  or  swelling  grounds,  very  near  at  hand,  and  a  dizzy 
height  above  it — perhaps  this,  suggesting  a  recollection  of  the 
real  peril  of  her  situation,  struck  into  Mrs.  Evelyn’s  heart  a  more 
appalling  sensation,  although  it  was  too  sincerely  felt  to  require 
the  usual  avowal. 

No  selfishness,  or  ignorance,  or  even  misgivings  of  personal 
safety,  had,  however,  the  effect  of  closing  the  eyes  and  minds  of 
Evelyn  and  his  gentle  sister  to  the  interest  of  their  situation. 
With  feelings  of  mingled  awe  and  delight,  they  found  themselves 
shut  in,  as  they  gradually  ascended,  between  precipices  and  swell¬ 
ing  grounds  of  amazing  magnitude.  The  solitude,  the  ruin,  and 
the  savageness  of  their  mountain-road,  had  due  effect  upon  them. 
From  about  the  summit  of  the  last  fatiguing  ascent  between  them 
and  Glenarm,  the  scenery  had  expanded,  only  to  assume  a  more 
vast  and  entrancing  character.  To  their  left,  swept  the  mighty 
hill  that  bounds  the  great  deer-park  of  Antrim  Castle,  crossed 
and  overtopped,  at  the  distance  of  some  miles,  by  another  of  a 
more  sterile  and  blacker  aspect.  To  their  right,  the  land  fell 
down  to  the  level  of  the  unlimited  ocean  ;  extent,  though  of  a 
varied  kind,  being  still  the  character  of  the  scene  ; — with,  at  the 
opposite  side  of  Glenarm’s  beautiful  bay,  the  huge  headland  of 
Garron  Point,  now  beginning  to  show  its  rude  variety  of  feature  ; 
ships  and  little  boats  ploughing  or  glancing  across,  or  resting 
near  the  shore — the  little  village  itself,  newly  rebuilt  after  the 
burning  by  Robert  Munroe  and  his  puritanical  soldiers,  and  now, 
therefore,  looking  more  neat  and  cheery  ;  and  the  old  castellated 
mansion  of  the  Earl  of  Antrim,  detached  from  the  village,  and 
standing  in  a  great  solitude.  When  this  picture  at  last  came 
on  their  view,  the  brother  and  sister  felt  more  than  repaid 
for  any  inconvenience  that  might  have  attended  their  progress 
towards  it. 

Another  rest  at  Glenarm,  and,  notwithstanding  the  advanced 
hour  of  the  day,  our  travellers  remounted,  to  gain,  after  eight 
additional  Irish  miles,  the  little  hamlet  of  Cushindoll,  which  was 
the  object  of  their  journey.  The  crossing  of  Garron  Point  proved 
a  task  of  such  difficulty,  and,  to  the  heavier  mounted  of  the  party, 
danger,  as  even  their  former  experience  of  the  road  could  not 
have  enabled  them  to  anticipate.  The  way  clambered  with  diffi¬ 
culty  at  the  bases  of  the  last  precipices,  which,  a  little  inland, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


39 


topped  the  point ;  and  those  terrific  precipices  were  rent  into  a 
thousand  masses  of  rock,  great  and  small,  toppling  over,  or  clus¬ 
tering  down  the  side  of  the  descent,  in  all  that  primitive  and 
awful  state  of  rest  in  which,  during  the  mighty  convulsion  that 
shaped  them,  they  had  caught,  and,  no  eye  could  tell  how,  bal¬ 
anced  and  sustained  each  other.  Often,  too,  they  jutted  out  upon, 
and  prescribed  the  course  of  the  only  strip  of  ground  available  as 
a  road  over  the  point.  And  through  the  minor  inequalities  to 
the  right,  one  could  always  behold  the  tremendous  descent  that, 
at  only  a  short  distance,  still  shot  down  to  the  sea,  sometimes 
pushing  it  too  fearfully  forward. 

At  about  the  place  where,  in  consequence  of  those  intrusions, 
the  road  grew  narrowest,  and  approached  nearest  to  the  precipice 
on  the  right,  was  the  termination  of  the  clamber  up.  Then,  al¬ 
most  immediately,  commenced  a  descent  nearly  to  the  level  of  the 
sea,  so  very  abrupt,  that  before  any  of  the  party  would  venture 
upon  it,  all  halted  and  held  a  consultation.  The  result,  in  the 
first  instance,  was  a  determination  to  have  the  horses  led  down, 
whilst,  one  by  one,  the  travellers  should  follow  them.  First, 
then,  the  barelegged  boy  volunteered,  with  a  sneer  at  the  precau¬ 
tions  adopted,  to  show  the  perfect  safety  of  the  road.  Allowing 
his  donkey  to  follow  at  his  leisure,  the  imp  ran  headlong  from 
side  to  side,  in  the  kind  of  movement  always  preferred  by  saga¬ 
cious  horses  in  similar  situations  ;  with  the  exception  that  they 
creep,  while  he  bounded  as  freely  as  if  the  ground  were  quite  level 
under  his  feet.  When  safe  at  the  bottom,  he  cut  some  self-flat¬ 
tering  capers  ;  and,  after  waiting,  a  few  minutes,  the  arrival  of 
his  charge,  who  followed  exactly  in  his  track,  though  ten  times 
more  slowly,  he  joined  the  party  at  nearly  the  same  speed  in 
which  he  had  left  them.  Young  Evelyn  then  led  down  his  own 
horse,  while  the  boy  accompanied  him  with  those  of  Uncle  Paul 
and  of  Oliver.  Both  presently  returning,  it  was  finally  arranged 
that,  after  such  encouragement,  Paul  himself  should  be  conveyed 
by  the  urchin,  and  his  lady  by  Oliver,  while  Evelyn  should  ren¬ 
der  Esther  the  same  assistance. 

Operations  commenced  by  Paul  reluctantly  giving  his  left  hand 
to  the  boy,  while  he  further  propped  himself  on  a  cane  held  iD 
his  right.  The  first  few  steps  were  favorable  ;  but  when  the 
poor  little  man  found  himself  launched  on  the  very  sudden  de¬ 
clivity,  with  a  vast  extent  yet  to  be  got  over,  and,  from  the 
rocky  smoothness  of  the  road,  no  hope  of  retracing  his  way  up¬ 
wards,  courage  forsook  his  heart.  His  little  legs — at  the  coolest 


4:0 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


moments,  none  of  the  most  steady — tottered  under  him  ;  his  pur¬ 
ple  face  strove  to  grow  pale  ;  he  himself  strove  to  stand  still. 
At  this  his  consort  assailed  him  from  above,  and  the  little  guide 
(though,  as  they  stood  together,  no  difference  could  be  observed, 
in  height  at  least)  at  his  ear,  with  cries  of  expostulation  to  pro¬ 
ceed  ;  the  one  exerting  a  voice  of  command,  the  other  speaking 
and  laughing  in  a  breath.  Paul  growing  more  nervous  and  con¬ 
fused,  yet  tried  to  do  as  he  was  bid,  and  immediately  put  his  feet 
in  motion ;  but  whether  he  was  in  too  relaxed  a  state  to  govern 
their  motions,  or  that  the  mischievous  imp  pulled  him  downward 
instead  of  checking  his  natural  readiness  to  descend  rapidly,  true 
it  is,  that  the  moment  he  trusted  them  from  under  him,  his  legs 
set  off  at  a  pitch  of  speed  too  amazing  to  be  voluntary,  until  at 
last  they  failed  him  altogether,  and  down  came  Uncle  Paul, 
grasping  the  guide  in  his  arms,  and  rolling  with  him,  over  and 
over,  to  the  bottom  of  the  declivity. 

The  party  above  were  necessarily  much  alarmed  at  this  acci¬ 
dent.  Mrs.  Evelyn  screamed  incessantly  as  her  lord  continued  in 
motion  ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  boy,  starting  to  his  feet,  on  the 
level  road,  and  raising  Uncle  Paul  with  him,  repeatedly  asserted 
the  safety  of  both,  that  tranquillity  could  be  restored.  But  these 
assurances,  and,  at  length,  even  their  confirmation  by  Paul  him¬ 
self,  could  not  now  prevail  on  Mrs.  Evelyn  to  take  her  turn  down 
the  hill  with  Oliver.  The  brother  and  sister  tried  to  urge  her, 
but  in  vain.  No;  it  was  a  plain  tempting  of  Providence;  a 
plain  hazarding  of  precious  life ;  Mrs.  Evelyn  would  never  stir 
a  step  further  on  such  a  vile  road — such  a  Papist  road — back  she 
might  go,  though  even  that  was  foolhardy  and  presumptuous 
— just  to  enable  herself  to  get  out  of  the  country  altogether  ; 
but  down  ! — down  that  precipice  ! — never.  And  to  manifest 
her  determination,  the  lady  squatted  herself  on  a  low  flat  stone 
by  the  road-side. 

Evening  had  for  some  time  been  approaching ;  but  now,  a 
shade  of  twilight,  too  deep  to  be  in  regular  gradation  with  any 
that  had  preceded  it,  fell  suddenly  over  the  mountain-way. 
Evelyn,  looking  on  the  sky,  saw  it  assume  a  lurid,  bronzed 
a.'pect ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  his  eye  caught  and  followed  up  a 
fearful  phenomenon.  Upon  the  summit  of  a  hill,  some  distance 
before  him,  he  observed  a  large  black  cloud  to  settle,  the  only 
one  that  intruded  on  the  dull  monotonous  color  of  the  heavens. 
Presently,  dividing  into  two  parts,  one  part  retired  from  his  view 
behind  the  hill,  while  the  other  approached  towards  the  party 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


41 


marking  its  course  with  horror,  and,  so  far  as  the  almost  unin¬ 
habited  state  of  the  country  can  permit  the  term,  with  devasta¬ 
tion.  It  was  a  tornado  cloud,  then  not  unknown  in  Ireland 
Even  at  a  distance  Evelyn  could  note  its  effect  along  the  sandy 
beach,  or  over  the  fern-clothed  bosom  of  the  hills.  The  sand 
rose  in  clouds  or  pillars  ;  the  fern,  first  uprooted,  and  then  col¬ 
lected,  ascended  high  into  the  air.  As  it  came  nearer,  the  few 
old  trees  on  its  course  were  torn  from  the  rocks  to  which  they 
clung,  and  whisked  about  like  straws,  and  many  of  the  rocks 
themselves  unbedded,  and  hurled  to  the  sea  ;  while  the  roof  of  a 
cabin  perched  on  the  superior  precipice  to  the  left,  was  uplifted, 
on  the  wings  of  the  cloud,  to  an  amazing  elevation. 

Terror,  at  this  unusual  sight,  seized  on  all.  Evelyn,  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  check  his  own  sensations,  held  tight  the  rein  of  his  sis¬ 
ter's  jennet,  as  she  was  the  only  individual  of  the  party  who  had 
not  yet  dismounted.  Oliver  and  Mrs.  Evelyn  (at  last  silent)  fell 
on  their  knees,  imagining  to  themselves  the  end  of  the  world,  or 
else  conjuring  the  very  top  of  Garron  Point  into  the  valley  of  Je- 
hoshaphat.  The  cries  of  Paul  and  of  the  boy,  their  common  tears 
and  childish  lamentation,  might  be  heard  from  the  road  under¬ 
neath  ;  and  perhaps,  as  they  were  rather  nearer  to  the  danger, 
they  had  most  immediate  cause  for  outcry,  particularly  when  the 
crash  of  falling  rocks  came  very  closely  on  their  ears. 

Still  the  black  and  giant  cloud  sailed  on  to  the  travellers,  al¬ 
though  occasionally  diverted  by  its  own  wayward  impulse  to  the 
right  or  the  left,  On  I — on ! — and  it  hovered  over  the  spot 
where  Uncle  Paul  and  his  treacherous  guide  were  stationed. 
Fortunately  for  them,  the  mountain  to  their  left  presented,  on 
its  sides  or  summits,  but  few  trees  or  rocks  to  the  fury  of  the 
tornado  ;  but  their  friends  above  could  see  them,  first  prostrated, 
and  then  caught  up  several  feet  from  the  ground — dropped, 
again  raised,  and  again  dropped,  as  an  eagle  might  tantalize  a 
lambkin.  Long  before  Paul  was  a  second  time  treated  in  this 
rude  fashion  he  had  become  insensible  to  his  danger  and  suffer¬ 
ings,  so  that  the  tornado  might  almost  as  well  have  vented  itself 
upon  a  bunch  of  fern,  the  stump  of  a  tree,  or  any  other  passive 
subject. 

The  terrible  wonder  began  to  ascend  to  the  summit  on  which 
rested  the  remainder  of  the  travellers.  Increased  darkness  at¬ 
tended  it,  and  the  tumbling  and  crash  of  loose  rock,  again  found 
on  its  course,  showed  its  unabated  power.  Evelyn  and  his  sis¬ 
ter,  Mrs.  Evelyn,  and  Oliver,  saw  death  approach  them  j  one 


42 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


and  all  they  conceived,  from  what  had  already  been  manifest, 
that  in  its  passage  over  their  heads,  the  huge  masses  of  rock, 
which  before  seemed  to  require  but  an  infant’s  touch  to  get 
downward  motion,  must  inevitably  become  loosened,  and  so 
whelm  them  in  destruction.  As  the  certainty  of  immediate  fate 
closed  on  all — all,  except  Mrs.  Evelyn,  prepared  for  it  in  silence. 
Her  uninterrupted  scream  rose  among  the  rocks  and  hills  around, 
and  she  fell  prostrate,  as  if,  by  anticipation,  she  would  bury  her¬ 
self  in  the  earth,  and  so  shorten  the  period  of  suffering.  But, 
half-way  only  over  the  ascent  the  cloud  had  advanced,  when  it 
became  stationary — opened — belched  forth  a  sheet  of  flame — ex¬ 
ploded  in  a  tremendous  thunderclap,  and,  rolling  over  the  pre¬ 
cipice  to  the  right  of  the  party,  and  hurrying  with  it  many  masses 
of  rock,  spent  itself  in  the  ocean.  The  quailing  waters  rose  at 
its  summons,  in  unnatural  intrusion  into  the  region  of  another 
element,  or,  heaving  laboriously  and  blackly,  seemed  to  evince 
their  terror  at  a  visitation  so  ominous 

Though,  with  the  first  thunderburst,  all  certain  danger  re¬ 
moved  from  the  travellers,  still  was  their  consternation  rather 
increased  than  diminished.  The  explosion  was  so  near,  and  the 
reverberations  through  the  rocks  and  mountains  were  so  as¬ 
tounding,  as  almost  to  add  frenzy  to  their  despair.  As  the 
fragments  of  precipice  continued,  even  after  the  passage  of  the 
tornado,  to  crash  downward  to  the  sea,  it  seemed  to  them  that 
the  solid  bulwark  under  their  feet  and  all  around  them  was  torn 
piecemeal  by  tempest  and  thunderbolt,  and  about  to  crumble  into 
one  general  ruin.  Nor  had  they  much  pause  to  relieve  them¬ 
selves  from  this  state  of  over-excitement,  when — as  if  one  tongue 
of  flame  which  had  issued  from  the  cloud  only  served  to  ignite 
the  whole  surcharged  atmosphere — flash  followed  flash,  and  peal 
followed  peal,  the  one  fiercely  relieved  by  the  increasing  dark¬ 
ness,  and  the  other  sustained  and  exaggerated  by  the  voices  of 
mountain  and  precipice,  until  nothing  but  blaze  and  noise  could 
be  seen  or  heard. 

At  the  moment  in  which  such  effects  were  working  most  pow¬ 
erfully  on  the  feelings  of  all,  and  of  Mrs.  Evelyn  in  particular, 
Esther’s  horse  became  ungovernable  in  its  fright,  and  despite  the 
resistance  of  young  Evelyn,  backed  from  the  place  where  it  had 
hitherto  tremblingly  stood.  The  brother  called  to  Esther  to 
throw  herself  off  :  her  limbs  were  strapped,  for  safety,  to  the  saddle, 
and  she  could  not  possibly  do  so.  Still  the  animal  pranced  and 
backed  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  its  fair  rider  screamt'i. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


43 


Mrs  Evelyn  caught  up  the  signal,  and  recommenced  her  own 
shrill  vociferations.  They  were  answered,  among  the  heights  oyer 
her  head,  by  a  scream  also,  but  of  a  cadence  so  wild  and  unnat¬ 
ural,  that  for  an  instant  she  held  her  breath  to  look  up.  Stand¬ 
ing  upon  the  edge  of  a  large  rock,  in  an  attitude  and  manner  of 
the  most  violent  energy,  she  there  saw  a  man  of,  it  might  be, 
about  fifty,  with  a  profusion  of  wild  hair  streaming  about  eyes  of 
almost  maniac  character,  and  holding  a  gun  in  his  hand,  while  he 
beckoned  rapidly,  and  she  thought  angrily,  to  Evelyn.  One 
look  at  this  person,  who  appeared  so  suddenly  but  a  few  yards 
above  her,  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Evelyn  ;  she  instantly  uttered  a 
louder  cry  than  ever,  and  darted  across  the  road  in  the  direction 
whither  Evelyn  and  his  sister  were  forced  by  the  affrighted  horse. 
Almost  as  instantly,  the  wild-looking  man  sprang  like  a  beast  of 
prey  after  her — cast  away  his  gun — seized  her  by  the  arms  and 
pulled  her  back.  Mrs.  Evelyn  resisted  ;  and,  gigantic  as  was  the 
strength  of  her  captor,  he  had  a  struggle  for  it,  before  he  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  gaining  sufficient  mastery  over  her  actions  to  whisk 
her  round,  and  rush  headlong  with  her  down  the  steep  road.  At 
the  very  time  that  this  scene  was  enacting,  and  while  Esther’s  horse 
still  plunged  backward,  two  other  voices  cried  out,  exactly  in  the 
quarter  from  which  Mrs.  Evelyn  had  been  startled,  and  two 
other  figures  sprang  up  exactly  where  she  had  seen  the  first  ;  but 
two  others  of  a  very  different  kind — a  girl  and  youth,  about  fif¬ 
teen  and  eighteen.  The  lad  also  held  a  carbine  in  his  hand,  and 
wore  the  Scotch  bonnet  and  trews  ;  the  girl  was  prettily  attired  ; 
both  had  an  air  of  interest,  if  not  rank,  about  them.  And, 
both  starting  up  on  the  ledge  of  rock,  together  directed  their 
looks  and  voices  towards  Evelyn  and  his  sister,  in  the  expression 
of  utter  alarm  and  horror.  “  Keep  back  the  horse  !  keep  back 
the  horse  I”  they  exclaimed  in  a  breath,  the  very  instant  they 
appeared. 

“  Keep  him  back  1”  continued  the  beautiful  girl,  clapping  her 

hands  in  agony  ;  “  his  hoof  is  almost  on  the  last  sod  between  ye 

and  vour  ruin !” 

%/ 

“  The  sea-precipice  1  the  precipice  I”  re-echoed  her  young  and 
nearly  as  handsome  companion,  as  he  bounded  like  a  wild-deer 
from  his  place,  and  rushed  towards  the  brother  and  sister. 

Upon  the  first  announcement  of  the  dreadful  peril  they  had 
before  only  apprehended,  Esther  swooned  in  her  saddle,  still  held 
in  it  by  the  straps,  and  Evelyn,  abandoning  the  rein,  made  a 
last  desperate  and  instinctive  attempt  to  catch  at  one  of  the  ank 


44 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


mal*s  fore-feet,  and  thus,  if  possible,  bring  him  to  the  ground. 
The  horse  reared  up  the  moment  he  was  touched — for  the  brother 
so  far  succeeded  in  his  first  effort — and  flinging  Evelyn  a  good 
distance  from  him,  moved  back  more  alarmed  than  before. 
Again,  the  young  girl  cried  out  in  treble  terror,  and,  abandoning 
her  station,  descended  after  the  youth.  Evelyn,  starting  up  from 
the  confusion  of  a  moment,  found  himself  too  far  to  reattempt 
instantaneous  assistance  ;  yet  he  ran,  or  rather  staggered  on¬ 
ward  ;  the  horse  still  backed  ;  he  could  now,  himself,  see  the  edging 
horror,  and  he  could  see  the  animal  step  another  step  towards  it 
— when,  like  an  arrow,  the  youth  shot  across  the  road,  came  up 
with  the  horse,  put  his  carbine  to  its  head  ;  discharged  it  ;  and 
the  animal  fell,  quite  dead,  going  down  on  the  side  that  left  Es¬ 
ther  free  of  his  fall.  She  was  safe. 

In  a  moment  the  young  man  released  her  from  her  fettered 
situation  in  the  saddle,  and,  kneeling,  presented  her  to  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  girl,  who  was  now  by  his  side,  and  who,  kneeling  also, 
tenderly  and  anxiously  received  the  charge.  Evelyn,  tottering 
forward,  had  fallen  almost  senseless  by  his  sister ;  the  youth 
raised  him  also,  and  supported  him  in  his  arms.  Oliver  had  re¬ 
mained  praying  since  the  first  appearance  of  the  storm,  and  in 
pious  abstraction,  selfishness,  or  cowardice,  never  moved  till  all 
the  succeeding  dangers  were  over.  Now  rising  from  his  knees, 
he  approached  the  group  of  young  persons,  and  forced  down 
Evelyn’s  throat  some  brandy,  which  he  produced,  in  a  black  bot¬ 
tle,  from  a  side-pocket.  He  wished  Esther  to  have  a  little  also  ; 
but  her  youthful  supporter  would  only  use  some  in  chafing  her 
temples.  Both  applications  did  good  service  ;  the  sister  and 
brother  revived  almost  together,  and  flew  to  each  other’s  em¬ 
brace.  When  they  sufficiently  recovered  their  recollection,  and 
Esther  learned  by  what  means  she  had  escaped  a  dreadful 
death,  she  turned,  with  Evelyn,  in  all  the  gratitude  of  human  na¬ 
ture  for  life  preserved,  to  thank  the  stranger  ;  but  he  was  gone. 

“  My  brother,”  said  the  girl,  “  has  walked  down  the  hill,  to 
inquire  after  the  dame  who  accompanied  you.” 

“  He  should  have  waited  to  accept  our  warmest  and  most 
grateful  acknowledgments,”  said  Esther. 

“  They  would  please  him,  I  am  sure  ;  but  still  he  thought  not 
of  them,”  resumed  the  girl ;  “  his  service  had  been  offered  here,  and 
while  another  occasion  might  elsewhere  happen  for  it,  was  ho 
not  right  to  go  ?” 

“  Then,  you  at  least,  maiden,  will  take,  in  your  brother’s  name, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


45 


all  the  thanks,  the  tears  of  thankfulness,  that  are  his  due.  For 
yourself,  too,  accept  our  thanks  ;  now  I  can  recollect  that  your 
kind  arms  were  around  me  when  I  revived.” 

“My  brother  is  overpaid  in  your  words,”  replied  the  young 
stranger  ;  “  and,  as  for  myself,  the  highest  pleasure  you  could  do 
me,  I  had  felt  in  receiving  thanks  for  him,  even  before  you  no¬ 
ticed  my  own  petty  service,  which  was  naught,  naught,  indeed  ; 
I  did  not  even  attempt  a  good  ;  I  but  cried  out  to  fright  him 
when  he  was  about  to  do  one  ;  and  I  have  but  the  pride  of 
seeing  such  a  brother  act  as  became  him.” 

“  A  noble  young  creature,”  whispered  Evelyn  to  his  sister. 

“  Yes  ;  and  withal  a  pretty  and  graceful,”  Esther  replied. 
Their  observations  were,  indeed,  called  for.  Although  rather 
below  the  middle  size  of  woman,  and  not  promising  ever  to 
reach  it,  the  sister  of  their  young  deliverer  looked,  while  thus 
speaking,  what  they  had  described  her.  Standing  straight  as  a 
poplar,  with  her  head  elevated,  her  neck  curving  like  a  swan’s, 
and  her  shoulders  so  knit  as  to  produce  a  fine  curve  in  her  back, 
there  was  about  her  figure  and  air,  and  in  the  all  but  haughty  out- 
turning  and  curling  of  her  parted  lips,  as  well  as  in  her  slightly 
aquiline  nose,  her  full  quick  eye,  straight  eyebrows,  and  broad 
forehead,  much  that  would  have  well  characterized  a  girlish  Juno. 
When  she  moved,  too,  her  step  was  firm,  though  graceful ;  and, 
child  as  she  might  be,  she  commanded  interest  and  enforced  re¬ 
spect. 

“  I  can  honor  your  sentiments,  dear  girl,”  Esther  smilingly 
resumed,  anxious  to  continue  the  conversation.  “  And  if  you 
will  come  and  sit  by  me,  and  awhile  longer  give  me  your  sweet 
support,  you  shall  know  particularly  why.” 

Their  former  attitude  was  in  a  moment  resumed,  the  younger  lady 
complying  with  the  request  of  Esther  with  a  manner  as  smiling 
aud  as  kind  as  it  had  before  been  dignified,  and  perhaps  distant. 
But  her  little  attentions  were  by  her  offered,  and  by  her  new 
friend  received,  in  a  way  that  was  a  tacit  assumption  of  some¬ 
thing  superior,  either  in  rank  or  spirit,  on  her  part,  and  a  quiet 
admission  of  it  on  the  part  of  Esther.  In  fact,  it  was  the  im¬ 
mediate  ascendency  which  a  stronger  mind  asserts,  even  at  the 
first  moment  of  contact,  over  a  weaker  one. 

“  Now,  know,”  Esther  continued,  “  that  I  have  especial  cause 
to  love  and  honor  your  admiration  of  your  brother,  because  I, 
too,  am  a  sister — ay,  sitting  by  my  brother’s  side — and  can 
therefore  feel  your  feeling.” 


46 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  I  saw  this  young  cavalier  strive  for  your  safety  like  a  broth* 
er,  indeed  ;  and  should  he  not,  for  so  fair  and  sweet  a  sister  ?” 

“Ay  ;  but  we  have,  moreover,  the  ties  of  sorrow  as  well  as 
of  love  to  bind  us.  We  are  orphan  brother  and  sister,”  said 
Esther,  wThile  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  instinctively 
pressed  the  hand  of  her  new  friend,  as  if  to  prefer  a  claim  on 
her  sympathy.  The  pressure  was  gently  returned,  as  the  other 
said,  in  a  soft,  rather  than  a  sad  voice  : 

“  We,  too,  have  known  an  early  sorrow  ;  but  not  to  such  an 
extent.  In  the  last  fall  of  the  leaf,  Edmund  and  I  lost  a  moth¬ 
er  ?”  She  paused  a  moment,  closed,  and  then  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
as  if  silently  repeating  a  prayer,  and  added,  “  May  she  rest  in 
peace !” 

The  wild-looking  man,  who  had  before  terrified  and  roughly 
treated  Mrs.  Evelyn,  here  started  up  on  the  bit  of  level  road 
which  afforded  rest  to  the  young  party,  and  with  continued 
energy  of  action,  looked  earnestly  around  him.  Seeing  the 
group,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  the  same  strange  kind  which  had  hurt 
that  lady’s  ears,  and  quickly  advanced  to  them.  Neither  Evelyn 
nor  Esther  had  seen  him  on  his  first  appearance,  and  while  the 
one  now  rose  in  some  alarm,  to  prevent  his  too  near  approach, 
the  other  clung  in  terror  to  her  companion. 

“  Fear  him  not,”  said  the  girl ;  “  he  is  my  father’s  brother, 
and  comes  on  a  good  intent.  Some  service  he  has  already  done 
you,  by  placing  out  of  the  reach  of  danger,  on  the  level 
road  below,  your  matronly  friend.  Do  not  mind  his  looks,  or 
action  either.  God  has  afflicted  him — he  is  deaf  and  dumb  ;  and, 
like  most  in  his  situation,  the  earnestness  of  his  looks  and  motions 
seem  wild,  perhaps  dangerous,  at  the  very  moment  that  they 
mean  a  service.” 

The  gesticulation  of  the  man  when  he  came  up  to  the  group 
seemed,  although  extravagant,  to  prove  the  truth  of  these  obser¬ 
vations.  He  first  ran  to  his  niece  and  kissed  her,  uttering 
strange,  and,  to  him,  unconscious  sounds  ;  then  he  took  Evelyn’s 
hand,  and  shook  it  violently  ;  then  Esther’s ;  and,  having  first 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  he  passed  it,  where  he  had  found  it,  round  the 
neck  of  the  young  girl,  causing  her  also  to  pass  her  arms  around 
Esther  ;  all  this  affording  him,  as  was  evident  by  his  smiles  and 
the  vivacity  of  his  eyes,  the  greatest  pleasure. 

After  a  few  moments,  his  niece  and  he  rapidly  conversed  by 
signs  ;  and  she  gave  her  friends  to  understand  that  her  uncle  had 
been  sent  by  her  brother  to  warn  them  of  the  necessity  of  im- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


47 


mediately  descending  the  hill,  rejoining  their  party,  and  seeking 
shelter  for  the  night,  which,  although  the  thunder-storm  had  long 
since  ceased,  now  set  in,  black  and  lowering,  with  a  threat  of 
heavy  rain.  Indeed,  the  big  drops  which,  rather  unusually,  had, 
during  the  thunder,  omitted  to  fall,  now  began  to  recommend 
this  advice  to  Evelyn.  So  that,  with  all  possible  dispatch,  he 
led  his  sister  down  the  steep  descent,  the  fair  young  girl  follow¬ 
ing  unassisted,  and  Oliver,  after  the  manifestation  of  some  timid¬ 
ity,  encouraged  by  the  dumb  man,  almost  in  as  rough  a  manner 
as  that  which  had  marked  his  offer  of  service  to  Mrs.  Evelyn. 

On  the  level,  or  nearly  level  ground,  they  found  Uncle  Paul 
already  remounted,  and  awaiting,  in  silent  consternation,  the 
further  will  of  fate  and  the  elements.  Mrs.  Evelyn,  too,  was  on 
her  pillion,  awaiting  Oliver,  though  not  in  a  mood  quite  as  silent. 
Esther  was  lifted  to  her  brother’s  horse,  while  he  assumed  his 
place  on  foot,  at  her  bridle  ;  the  other  sister  locked  her  arm  in 
that  of  the  other  brother ;  and  all  were  very  soon  ready  to  start, 
when  the  young  man  inquired  whither  he  should  have  the  pleas¬ 
ure  of  conducting  them. 

“  To  a  cottage  they  had  lately  engaged,  by  the  seacoast,” 
Evelyn  replied,  “  which  could  not  be  now  far  distant  ;  but  the 
boy  would  answer  particularly.” 

The  boy,  however,  did  not  appear. 

“  Paul,  Paul,  what  hast  thou  done  with  the  stripling,  sir  V ’ 
asked  Mrs.  Evelyn,  losing  patience.  Paul  did  not  know.  He 
believed  he  had  run  away  in  fright ;  and  thankful  he  ought  to 
be  for  the  ability  to  run  away.  That  the  urchin  had  at  least 
played  no  trick  in  this  instance  was  evident,  as  the  donkey  still 
attended  with  his  hampers,  although  his  master  was  gone. 

“  This  is  most  embarrassing,”  Evelyn  continued  ;  “  we  have 
never  been  to  this  place,  contenting  ourselves  with  sending  for¬ 
ward  a  friend,  indeed  a  relative,  to  take  charge  of  it  for  us  ;  the 
urchin  was  by  that  friend  dispatched  from  the  neighborhood, 
chiefly  to  guide  us  hither  ;  now  that  he  has  disappeared,  we  only 
know  that  the  residence  is  in  the  vicinity  of  Cushindoll.” 

“  And  on  such  imperfect  information,  would  it  be  well  to 
wander  about  in  such  a  night  ?”  asked  the  youth.  “  See,  the 
rain  begins  to  thicken  ;  we  can  offer  you  a  roof,  though  an  hum¬ 
ble  one.” 

“  And,  however  humble,  it  is  certain,  and  to  be  gained  in  a 
certain  time,”  added  his  sister.  “  Good  lady,  consent  ;  you  aro 
not  formed  for  ill  weather.” 


48 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


Esther  did  consent,  and  her  brother  too  ;  and  the  young  girl 
then  asked,  “  Edmund,  what  think  you  of  sending  our  poor  uncle 
to  announce  us  at  Glenarriff  ?”  Edmund  assented  ;  she  made  a 
few  signs  to  the  dumb  man,  who,  the  moment  he  understood  the 
nature  of  the  arrangement,  showed  the  most  excessive  symptoms 
of  gratification  and  welcome-making.  Then,  though  by  no  means 
a  young  man,  he  hurried  off  at  a  very  rapid  and  buoyant  pace, 
leaving  his  nephew  to  conduct  slowly,  over  the  rough  mountain- 
road,  the  fatigued  and  frightened  party. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Immediately  after  crossing  Garron  Point,  and  falling,  as  be¬ 
fore  observed,  nearly  to  the  level  of  the  sea,  the  road,  following 
the  indentures  of  the  coast,  turned  quickly  to  the  right,  almost 
at  a  right-angle  with  its  former  course,  and  held  that  line  for  a 
considerable  way,  thus  describing  one  side,  and  that  the  longest 
one,  of  Red  Bay,  of  which  the  figure  is,  very  nearly,  three  sides 
of  a  square.  All  along  this  line,  the  travellers  kept  parallel  to 
the  inland  continuation  of  the  point  ;  but  at  the  next  sudden  and 
angular  turn,  which  followed  nearly  to  its  edge  the  second  side 
of  the  bay,  their  backs  were  to  that  chain  of  mountain  and  pre¬ 
cipice  ;  on  their  right  was  the  open  bay,  and  to  their  left  a  spa¬ 
cious  valley,  formed  on  the  one  side  by  the  running,  still  more  in¬ 
land,  of  the  continuation  of  Garron  Point,  and  on  the  other,  by 
a  range  of  hills,  of  equal,  if  not  superior,  magnitude. 

After  pursuing  this  course  for  some  time,  their  conductor 
halted,  and  informed  the  party  that  with  little  deviation  their 
present  road  would  bring  them,  round  the  bay,  to  Cushindoll  ; 
but  that  they  must  again  turn  to  the  left,  into  the  glen,  to  insure 
file  asylum  he  had  offered  them.  He  added,  that  the  glen-road 
was  less  fatiguing,  and,  indeed,  less  dangerous  than  that  by  which 
they  must  go  in  search  of  their  own  residence.  Accordingly,  all 
turned  off  the  coast  with  him. 

Nearly  at  the  moment  of  thus  changing  their  route,  they  were 
faced  by  considerable  precipices  of  earth  and  soft  stone,  which 
had  fallen  down  upon  the  road  they  should  have  taken  to  their 
cottage  ;  these  formed  its  left-hand  limit,  for  some  distance  run- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


49 


ning  with  it,  and  at  their  bases  showing  two  or  three  large  exca¬ 
vations,  the  work  of  the  adjacent  sea,  when  at  some  former  pe¬ 
riod  its  tides  and  storms  had  perseveringly  lashed  the  precipice 
that  must  then  have  been  its  boundary.  Through  the  larger  of 
these  caves  issued  a  red  glare  of  light,  which,  from  the  dimmed 
effect  at  the  entrance,  seemed  to  come  a  good  way  from  the  in¬ 
side,  and  thus  gave  the  idea  of  a  rather  extensive  interior.  In 
turning  upon  the  glen-road,  the  travellers  were  leaving  to  their 
right  these  caves,  and  a  little  behind  them,  when  a  voice  was 
heard  in  that  from  which  the  light  appeared,  speaking  loudly  and 
dictatorially,  but  in  a  language  unknown  to  the  strangers  of  the 
party.  Immediately  after,  the  light  increased  in  the  mouth  of 
the  excavation  ;  finally  a  woman  approached  from  the  entrance, 
with  a  piece  of  flaming  wood  in  her  hand,  continuing  to  speak, 
and  now  evidently  addressing  the  group. 

“We  may  just  stop  and  speak  to  her,  Edmund,”  said  the 
young  girl,  “  for  the  rain  blows  off.” 

“  Why  ?”  asked  Evelyn  ;  “  and  why  does  she  speak  to  us  ?” 

“  She  asks  us,”  Edmund  replied,  translating  literally  from  the 
Irish,  in  which  the  woman  had  addressed  them,  “  on  pain  of  the 
anger  of  her  whose  anger  is  a  cloud  and  a  blast,  not  to  pass  her 
house  without  bidding  Gfod  save  her.” 

“  And  this  cavern  is  her  house  ?  Who  or  what  is  she  ;  and 
why  this  unusual  interruption?” 

“  She  is  a  creature  without  friend  or  relation,  fortune  or  home, 
except  that  the  charitable  or  credulous  administer  to  her  wants, 
and  that  this  sea-cave,  whence  she  has  lately  expelled  the  owls 
and  bats,  affords  her  a  chilly  shelter.  What  she  thinks  of  her¬ 
self,  and  what  others  concur  in  thinking  her,  it  would  not  be  for 
her  safety  to  declare.  For  my  own  part,  I  sometimes  think  her 
mad,  although  more  close  observation  banishes  the  idea.  Per¬ 
haps,  to  extreme  ignorance,  her  mind  joins  much  enthusiasm  and 
more  cunning  ;  and  hence  is  she  able  to  impress  the  character 
she  generally  bears,  and  to  which,  for  your  information,  I  have, 
doubtless,  sufficiently  alluded.” 

During  this  speech,  the  woman  advanced  to  meet,  half-way, 
the  party  who  were  in  motion  to  her.  In  age,  she  was  about 
twenty-five  ;  in  height  rather  tall,  in  person  slight,  in  feature 
spare  and  pallid.  Her  black  hair  was  uncovered  ;  and  over  the 
vulgar  female  dress,  that  scarce  ever  varies  in  any  time  or  coun¬ 
try,  fell  the  old  Irish  mantle,  heavily  hooded,  and  of  a  dark 
color. 


3 


50 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Having  stood  before  the  vonng  man,  her  flaming  brand  held 
up,  she  asked  him,  in  Irish,  to  bid  God  save  her.  He  did  so. 
She  made  the  same  request,  with  the  same  success,  of  his  sister, 
and  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Evelyn  ;  but  that  lady’s  “  Go,  woman, 
go,”  uttered  half  in  fear,  half  in  anger  and  disgust,  was  all  she 
could  in  this  instance  accomplish.  As  to  Paul,  he  was  corn- 


silent. 


'  “  Then,”  said  the  woman,  in  Iris-h,  “  the  heaviest  suffering 

you  can  both  feel,  be  upon  ye  !  Starve !” — and  she  turned 
from  them.  The  young  man  and  his  sister,  who  understood 
what  she  had  uttered,  laughed  at  a  malediction  that,  to  all  ap¬ 
pearance,  could  never  have  effect ;  but  neither  Mrs.  Evelyn  nor 
her  husband  felt  so  comfortable  when  it  was  translated  for  their 
advantage. 

The  strange  woman  passed  Oliver  without  stopping  to  com¬ 
mand  his  benison,  as  if  she  made  very  light  of  it,  and  once  more 
halted  before  Esther,  holding  high  in  her  hand  the  blazing  wood, 
in  order  to  afford  herself  a  good  view  of  the  young  lady’s  face, 
who,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  on  horseback.  But  no  sooner 
had  she  got  a  glimpse  of  Esther’s  features,  than  she  uttered  a 
low  howl,  and  running  back  to  Edmund,  spoke  to  him  in  a  very 
animated  tone  and  manner,  as  if  endeavoring  to  impress  upon 
him  something  which  he  seemed  either  careless  or  unwilling  to 
admit.  Again  she  returned  to  Esther,  and  again  manifested 
the  same  unaccountable  sensation.  Finally,  she  stood  before 
Evelyn,  and  with  more  respectful  demeanor  than  she  had  hither¬ 
to  shown,  asked,  and,  under  the  instructions  of  Edmund,  received 
his  “  God  save  you  and  then  she  continued  to  speak  in  Irish, 
which  we  will  translate. 

“Now  go  your  ways,  and  let  nothing  fright  you  through  the 
clouds  of  the  night.  I  have  your  good  word,  and  it  will  rest 
with  me  ;  they  say  it  does  not  rest  with  me,  and  that  I  often 
need  it,  from  the  Christians,  to  charm  me  against  what  does. 
Go  your  ways, — unless  that  you  cross  the  cold  threshold  of  my 
house,  and  taste  the  cup,  or  break  the  bread,  to  speed  you  on 
your  road,  or  sit  down  with  the  old  and  crippled  who  talk  to 
me-  all  night  long,  and  tell  me  what  I  should  not  listen  to,  though 
’tis  known  I  do.” 

“  And  who  are  they,  Onagh  ?”  asked  Edmund. 

“  One  that,  when  I  came  to  my  house,  I  found  already  in  it ; 
and  another  that  was  sent  far  to  us.  But  go  your  ways,  since 
you  will  not  enter  ;  go,  with  a  curse  for  some,  a  sorrow  for  more, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


51 


and  a  blessing  for  a  few  !”  She  walked  slowly  and  heavily  to 
her  cavern,  thus  leaving  behind  her  a  prophecy  that,  inspiration 
apart,  any  one  might  venture  to  apply  to  the  future  fortunes  of 
any  half-dozen  of  human  beings. 

The  party  entered  the  solitary  valley  of  Glenarriff,  just  as  the 
moon  was  risen  to  faintly  show  as  much  of  its  general  aspect  as 
mist  and  shadow  did  not  envelop.  A  short  distance  up  the 
glen,  Edmund  and  his  sister  were  rather  startled  by  the  re¬ 
appearance,  at  their  side,  of  Onagh  of  the  cavern.  They  had 
for  a  moment  fallen  behind  the  party,  and  she  came  up  with 
them  unperceived  by  the  strangers. 

“  What  means  this,  Onagh  ?”  asked  Edmund. 

“  I  speak  not  to  him,”  she  replied,  addressing  his  sister;  “for 
he  has  already  scorned  my  words.  But  you,  Eva  M’ Donnell, 
who,  though  you  love  and  like  me  not,  have  ever  shown  the  open 
hand  to  Onagh,  you  I  command  to  remind  him  of  my  warning. 
Tell  him  it  is  the  very  face  I  saw,  though  he  could  not  see  it,  last 
All-hallow  Eve,  when,  together,  we  sowed  the  rape-seed  by  the 
river-side,  while  the  moon  was  shining  for  us  ;  and  tell  him  to 
shun  that  face.” 

“  What  face,  Onagh  ?  and  what  warning  am  I  to  repeat  to 
my  brother  ?” 

u  He  will  remember  it ;  for  yourself,  Eva” — she  took  the 
young  girl’s  hand,  drew  her  aside,  and  added  in  a  low  whisper — 
“  your  fate  is  near  you,  too,  but  you  need  not  shun  it.  You  will 
love  him,  and  you  may.” 

“  Absurd  !”  Eva  said,  and  was  about  to  add  more  comment, 
when  the  self-important  Onagh  rapidly  left  her. 

“  Dear  brother,  what  of  all  this  ?”  she  then  asked,  rejoining 
Edmund. 

“  I  care  not  ;  nor  should  you  care  to  know  or  ask,  Eva  ;  cer¬ 
tainly  not  now,  when  yon  strangers  require  our  guidance  to  the 
Strip  of  Burne.  Let  us  forward  to  them.” 

Up  to  this  moment  Evelyn  had  been  observing  the  features 
of  the  glen,  so  far  as  they  were  revealed  by  the  moonlight.  Close 
at  the  right,  arose  from  the  very  level  of  the  road  piles  of  swell¬ 
ing  ground,  upon  which,  midway,  a  thick  white  mist  rested,  but 
not  so  steadily  as  to  withhold,  when  occasionally  agitated  by  the 
high  wind,  faint  indications  of  immense  precipices,  shooting  up 
behind  into  the  loftier  clouds.  On  the  left,  the  ground  fell  to 
the  bottom  of  the  glen,  until  it  met  a  river,  of  which  some  spark¬ 
ling  glimpses  were  to  be  had,  some  rippling  sounds  to  be  heard . 


52 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


beyond  the  river  uprose,  again,  vast  mountain  swells  ;  the  mist 
here  interrupting,  likewise,  a  continued  view  of  their  utmost  as¬ 
cents  ;  or,  as  at  the  other  side,  only  permitting  a  dreamy  glance 
of  cold  pale  summits,  half  touched  by  moonshine.  Straight  on¬ 
ward  the  glen  spread  out  and  ran  to  a  distance.  Its  sides,  as 
they  curved,  appeared  to  meet  ;  the  moon  settling,  with  an  un¬ 
disturbed  breadth  of  light,  on  the  top  of  a  distant  hill,  that 
seemed  to  close  the  grand,  the  silent,  and  shadowy  vista. 

As  he  looked  down  the  valley,  Evelyn’s  observations  were 
broken  by  the  glare  of  a  number  of  lights,  and  the  sound  of  many 
voices. 

“Yonder  is  the  Strip  of  Burne,”  said  Edmund  M’Donnell, 
“  and  these  are  my  father’s  people  come  out  to  welcome  us.  But 
let  my  father’s  son  first  have  the  honor  of  welcoming  you  to  a 
home  too  humble  for  your  apparent  rank,  and,  indeed,  for  the 
early  fortunes  of  his  own  family.” 

The  lad,  with  a  blush  so  positive  as  to  be  visible  even  in  the 
imperfect  light,  yet  with  a  grace  and  ease  that  more  than  bal¬ 
anced  such  a  departure  from  courtly  manners,  took  off  his  Scotch 
bonnet,  and  bowed  separately  to  the  travellers. 

“And  you,  lady,”  said  Eva,  “  welcome  with  all  possible  joy 
to  a  night’s  rest  under  a  roof  that  I  am  still  too  proud  to  call 
too  humble  she  playfully  waved  her  hand,  and  Esther  as  gayly 
stooped  from  her  saddle  to  kiss  the  young  girl’s  cheek. 

“  Our  father  himself  is,  as  he  should  be,  at  the  head  of  his 
own  people,”  Eva  resumed,  as  the  advancing  party  came  up  ;  and 
soon,  indeed,  the  old  man  was  visible,  with  his  dumb  brother  by 
his  side,  his  white  head  uncovered,  his  hale,  fresh-colored  cheeks 
glowing  with  unusual  brightness,  and  his  mild  and  still  fine  eyes 
anticipating  the  expression  of  the  sentiments  he  was  about  to 
speak.  Bending  low  to  the  strangers,  he  first  uttered  a  sentence 
in  Irish,  which  Edmund  thus  rendered  : 

“  My  father  says,  that,  while  he  joyfully  welcomes  you  to  a 
house  he  might  once  have  been  ashamed  of,  he  blesses  the  day 
on  which  his  brother  and  son,  going  out  to  shoot  sea-fowl,  have 
been  so  happy  and  honored  as  to  do  you  a  service.” 

While  Mrs.  Evelyn,  her  husband,  and  Oliver  held  profound 
and,  it  might  be,  uncourteous  silence,  the  younger  strangers  fitly 
expressed  themselves  in  return  to  this  address.  Then  the  rude- 
looking  kerne  in  attendance  shouted  joyfully  ;  old  M’ Donnell, 
taking  Evelyn’s  hand,  led,  with  the  other,  Esther’s  palfrey  ;  his 
son  led  the  horse  that  bore  Mrs.  Evelyn  and  Oliver  ;  the  dumb 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


53 


man  took  in  charge  Paul  and  his  steed  ;  and  the  two  united  par* 
ties  proceeded  to  the  “  Strip  of  Burne.” 

This  name  seemed  to  be  given  to  a  spot  of  broken,  though 
not  very  abrupt  ground,  lying,  as  Evelyn  could  indistinctly  ob¬ 
serve,  immediately  under  a  tremendous  precipice,  perhaps  the 
steepest  part  of  the  range  they  had  found  on  their  right  since  en¬ 
tering  the  glen.  A  small  streamlet,  deriving  its  source  from  the 
rocks  above,  made  way  through  a  deep  rock-strewn  channel  in 
the  middle  of  this  ground  ;  on  the  near  side  of  it  stood  the  lone 
residence  of  the  M’Donnells,  a  thatched  dwelling,  of  about  three 
times  the  size  of  those  inhabited  by  the  peasantry  of  the  country, 
with  a  few  pines  and  mountain-ash  behind,  that,  at  different 
heights,  found  root  in  the  barren  soil,  or  in  the  crevices  of  the 
rock.  The  house  was  nearly  at  the  edge  of  the  road  by  which  it 
was  approached,  and  some  distance  from  the  precipice. 

With  repeated,  yet  not  irksome,  assurances  of  welcome,  the 
strangers  were  ushered  into  a  large  apartment,  that  seemed  to 
serve  as  kitchen  and  common  residence,  except  during  the  hours 
of  rest,  to  the  servants  as  well  as  the  heads  of  the  family.  At 
the  end  blazed  a  turf  fire,  lighted  on  the  hearth,  and  finding  vent  up 
a  capacious  chimney,  over  and  about  which  hung,  interspersed  with 
sides  of  bacon  and  haunches  of  dried  venison,  many  old  swords 
and  pistols,  otter-skins,  fox-brushes,  and  the  antlers  of  the  deer. 
Along  the  walls  stood  a  dresser,  containing  the  then  necessary 
articles  of  culinary  and  table  equipage,  two  rudely-shaped  presses, 
a  few  chairs,  as  rudely  fashioned,  and  a  range  of  forms.  The 
floor  was  earthen  ;  and,  overhead,  appeared  the  joists,  wattles, 
and  thatch,  as  naked  as  the  interior  of  a  peasant’s  cabin,  with  the 
sole  difference,  that  they  were  not  blackened  with  smoke  and 
soot.  Otherwise,  from  its  extent,  furniture,  and  particular  clean¬ 
liness,  the  apartment  bore  little  resemblance  to  the  more  humble 
huts  that  were  sparingly  strewed  in  the  district  about. 

At  the  fire,  an  old  woman,  assisted,  or  rather  interrupted,  by 
one  or  two  wenches,  comely  and  bare-legged,  were  employed  in 
cooking.  Around  her,  at  by  no  means  a  respectful  distance,  sat 
some  men,  retainers  or  servants  of  the  family,  who  had  not,  for 
special  reasons,  accompanied  old  M’Donnell  to  meet  the  strangers. 
The  hobs  were  also  occupied.  On  one  reposed  a  tall,  gaunt  man, 
about  sixty  years  of  age,  whose  haggard  face  and  sunken  eye  be¬ 
spoke  an  ill  state  of  health,  while  his  manner,  and  a  slight  pecu¬ 
liarity  in  his  dress,  betokened  a  person  distinct  from,  if  not  supe¬ 
rior  to,  those  around  him.  On  the  other,  his  knees  crippled  up 


54 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


to  his  chin,  a  large  pieoe  of  oaten-cake  in  his  hand,  and  his  jaws 
employed  with  the  celerity  of  those  of  a  rabbit  in  making  way 
through  it,  sat  the  chief  cause  of  almost  all  the  delays  and  perils 
that  had  overtaken  the  strangers — the  donkey’s  guardian. 

The  moment  Evelyn  entered,  the  little  rascal’s  eyes  met  his, 
and  he  instantly  ceased  the  rapid  motion  of  his  jaws,  looking  as 
conscious  as  a  monkey  detected  amid  the  sweets  of  a  pantry. 
Evelyn  instantly  closed  on  him,  whip  in  hand,  with  an  angry 
query  as  to  the  cause  of  his  sudden  disappearance  at  Garron 
Point.  But  ere  he  proceeded  to  inflict  any  real  punishment,  the 
boy  flippantly  explained,  that  having  first  run  for  his  life  from,  as 
he  called  it,  “  the  muckle  mirk  cloud” — a  proceeding  that  no 
gentle  or  Christian  could  blame  him  for — he  thought  his  better 
plan  then  was  to  hasten  to  Evelyn’s  Uncle  Jeremiah,  who  kept 
possession  of  the  cottage  at  Cushindoll,  and  inform  him  of  the 
distress  of  his  friends.  That,  Jeremiah  being  out  (he  believed 
supping  with  the  priest),  he  was  returning  to  Evelyn,  accompa¬ 
nied  by  friends  of  his  own,  when,  passing  by  Onagh’s  house,  he 
saw  the  party,  along  with  their  new  acquaintances,  whom  he 
knew  well,  speaking  to  her.  And  that,  not  liking  to  come  in  her 
way,  he  just  bid  his  friends  good-night,  and  ran  on  to  Randall 
M’Donnell’s  house,  whither  he  plainly  perceived  all  were  travel¬ 
ling. 

This  statement  appearing,  on  the  whole,  reasonable,  Evelyn 
restrained  his  hand,  and  as  the  imp,  with  a  self-gratulatory 
chuckle,  recommenced  his  attack  on  the  oaten-cake,  he  turned  to 
his  host  to  request  from  him  a  guide,  by  whose  assistance  he 
might  immediately  visit  his  Uncle  Jeremiah,  and  ascertain  at  the 
same  time  whether  or  no  the  road  between  them  permitted  a 
speedy  departure  to  his  own  cottage,  in  which,  if  possible,  he 
was  now  determined,  with  his  friends,  to  lodge  for  the  night.  At 
this  intimation,  when  he  understood  it,  old  M’Donnell  looked 
blank,  his  son  grieved,  aud  his  daughter  haughty ;  while  the 
dumb  man,  as  soon  as  he  read  their  countenances,  looked  every 
kind  of  extreme  astonishment,  anxiety,  aud  it  seemed  impatience, 
if  not  anger.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Evelyn,  with  Uncle  Paul,  just  en¬ 
tering,  he  sprang  to  the  fire,  at  which,  as  before  noticed,  some 
men  were  seated,  hurled  them  from  it  to  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment,  returned  to  the  ladies,  and,  seizing  a  hand  of  each, 
led  them  to  the  seats  the  former  had  occupied.  Uncle  Paul  he 
also  twirled  to  a  seat  at  the  blaze,  with  a  hospitable  energy 
rather  inconsiderate  ;  aud,  finally,  having  placed  Oliver  on  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


55 


hob  with  the  boy,  and  Eva  by  the  side  of  Esther,  he  took  his 
station  at  the  back  of  his  brother,  seemingly  in  a  mood  at  once 
offended  and  determined. 

But,  for  the  time,  disapprobation  or  entreaty  were  equally  in¬ 
effectual  to  prevail  on  Evelyn  to  alter  his  plan.  He  averred  that, 
all  along,  it  had  been  his  intention  to  avail  himself  of  the  hospi¬ 
tality  of  M’Donnell’s  roof,  only  during  the  time  necessary  to 
ascertain  the  situation  of  his  own,  and  whether  or  no  he  could 
that  night  properly  conduct  his  sister  to  it.  Perhaps  his  glance 
at  the  seeming  want  of  accommodation  for  so  large  a  party, 
might  have  served  to  confirm  this  resolve  ;  and,  perhaps,  he  was 
further  assisted  in  it  by  a  disposition  naturally  distant,  averse  to 
accept  unnecessary  favors,  and  fixed  in  its  bent  by  an  English 
education.  So,  with  a  manner  that  appeared  somewhat  churlish, 
though  he  was  really  unconscious  of  the  appearance,  Evelyn, 
pressing  his  request  for  a  guide,  obtained  one  in  the  person  of 
the  dumb  man,  whose  offer  of  service  was  voluntary,  and  not  to 
be  refused. 

Both  instantly  got  on  horseback,  and,  retracing  the  road 
through  the  glen,  passed  Ouagh’s  cavern,  and  then  encountered 
an  up-and-down  and  rock-strewn  road,  which,  ere  Evelyn  had 
half  mastered  it,  made  him  speedily  come  to  the  opinion  that, 
until  morning,  and  recovery  from  her  previous  terrors  and  fatigue, 
he  dare  not  venture  to  convey  Esther  to  her  own  home.  An  in¬ 
terview  with  his  Uncle  Jeremiah  he  was,  however,  resolved  to  ob¬ 
tain,  and  therefore  continued  on  to  the  little  hamlet  of  Cushin- 
doll,  then  consisting  of  a  few  wretched  cabins,  lying  at  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  rugged  ascents  over  which  he  and  his  dumb  guide 
had  for  some  time  been  journeying,  although  the  curious  travel¬ 
ler  of  the  present  day  will  find  it  a  smart,  neat  village,  with,  by 
the  way,  more  than  usual  facilities  to  “  take  his  ease  in  his  inn 
with  a  smooth  seashore  road  leading  to  it,  sometimes  cut  through 
vast  rocks,  or  having  them  scooped  out  into  an  archway  over 
his  head  ;  and,  altogether,  holding  out  to  him  the  attraction  of  a 
most  delightful  residence  on  one  of  the  grandest  coasts  in  the 
world. 

Before  leaving  his  brother’s  home,  the  dumb  man  had  under¬ 
stood,  on  the  report  of  the  boy,  that  he  was  first  to  lead  Evelyn 
to  the  priest’s  house,  in  search  of  his  uncle.  Thither  he  accord¬ 
ingly  bent  his  course, — Evelyn,  though  all  along  not  without  a 
mixture  of  vexation,  misgiving,  and  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  pas¬ 
sively  following  in  his  track. 


56 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


They  gained  and  dismounted  before  a  thatched  dwelling,  which 
bore,  however,  some  appearance  of  comfort  and  neatness  superior 
to  the  cabins  around  it,  having  a  wall  in  front,  with  a  cross- 
barred  gate,  that  the  visitors  found  well  secured.  The  dumb 
man  knocked  loudly,  but  no  one  came  in  answer  ;  he  knocked 
again  and  again,  and  still  they  remained  at  the  wrong  side  of  the 
house  ;  until,  losing  all  patience,  he  tied  his  own  and  Evelyn’s 
horses  to  the  gate,  and  rapidly  beckoning  him  to  follow,  ap¬ 
proached  the  back  of  the  cottage,  where,  by  a  stile,  he  intro¬ 
duced  himself  into  a  little  kitchen-garden,  and,  through  it,  to  a 
poultry-yard  and  back-door. 

The  moment  Evelyn  entered  the  garden,  he  heard  his  Uncle 
Jeremiah’s  cracked  voice  performing,  at  its  loudest  pitch,  a 
favorite  song,  of  which  the  well-known  chorus  ran  as  follows  : 

“  So  let  old  ship  go  up  or  down, 

And  her  flag  be  of  red,  or  black,  or  brown, 

Blazing  away,  or  sailing  merrilie, 

Merry,  merry,  ever  let  her  jolly  hands  be.” 

In  this  he  was  faintly,  and  as  if  only  through  courtesy,  joined  by 
a  voice  still  more  cracked  than  his  own,  although,  between  them, 
they  made  a  good  shrill  chorus  of  it ;  and,  at  the  end,  two  per¬ 
sons  might  be  heard  quaffing,  separately,  a  long  draught,  and 
afterwards  smacking  their  lips. 

Evelyn’s  conductor  seemed,  almost  as  soon  as  himself,  to  be¬ 
come  aware,  though  it  was  hard  to  tell  how,  of  the  scene  that 
was  going  on  within  ;  for  he  had  scarce  entered  the  yard,  when, 
pointing  to  an  open  window,  through  which  light  issued,  he  made 
signs  to  his  follower  to  step  cautiously  ;  and  setting  the  example 
he  wished  to  have  imitated,  stole  towards  the  window,  with 
strange  convulsions  of  feature,  that  betokened  great,  though 
checked  delight.  Both  thus  gained  a  spot  from  which,  unseen, 
they  might  easily  observe  those  inside. 

Evelyn’s  Uncle  Jeremiah  sat,  with  his  jovial  side-face  to  them, 
at  a  small  table,  on  which  was  provision  for  the  good-humor  he 
so  earnestly  inculcated.  A  little  man  he  was,  clad  in  a  sailor’s 
tight-bodied  blue  cloth  dress,  gathered  round  the  hips  into  some¬ 
thing  of  the  shape  of  a  kilt,  and  just  allowing  to  be  seen  the  ori¬ 
gin  of  his  Jersey  carnation  stockings,  with  great  clocks  in  them  ; 
he  was  nearly  as  short  and  as  round  as  his  brother  Paul,  and  had, 
like  him,  a  button-nose,  studded  with  gray  bristles.  But  in  the 
twinkle  of  his  merry  and  sensual  black  eye  ;  in  the  half-gaping 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


57 


bacchanalian  expression  of  his  mouth  ;  in  his  placid  forehead, 
hale,  weather-tanned  cheeks,  and  long,  white  locks,  despising  a 
periwig,  as  well  as  in  the  well-braced  air  of  his  limbs  and  body, 
no  further  likeness  appeared. 

Opposite  to  him  sat  his  host,  seemingly  an  unwilling  one.  A 
very  little  man,  too,  as  chance  would  have  it,  and  nearly  twice 
the  age  of  his  guest — that  is,  he  could  not  be  less  than  ninety. 
His  features  were  of  a  large  intellectual  order  ;  his  head  (covered 
with  a  black  skull-cap,  of  some  hard,  rough  substance,  having  an 
iron  ring  in  the  top,  large  enough  for  a  trap-door)  sunk  between 
his  shoulders  ;  his  neck  and  body  stooped  ;  and  a  violent  palsy 
shaking  every  joint,  limb,  and  part  of  his  body.  This  old  gen¬ 
tleman  seemed,  we  say,  as  if  he  had  not  invited  Jerry  that  even¬ 
ing  ;  as  if  the  visit  at  supper-time  had  been  unlooked  for  and  un¬ 
welcome  ;  but,  now  that  the  matter  was  to  be  got  over,  as  if  he 
strove  to  make  a  virtue  of  a  necessity  ;  and  lastly,  as  if  it  was 
not  in  his  nature  or  habits  to  express  chagrin  or  dislike  in  an  un- 
courteous  manner. 

“  That’s  a  spice  of  a  good  song,  holy  brother/7  continued 
Jeremiah  ;  “  though  it  be  none  of  thy  business  to  say  me  yea.  Ye 
would  fain  ever  hold  us  sorrowful,  ye  chaplains,  with  your  preach¬ 
ing  up  a  bit  of  a  good  life,  never  a  hearty  one  ;  but  hark  thee 
agaiu — 


“  ‘  The  black-gown  swears  ’tis  wail  and  woe, 

And  raves  if  we  drink  and  doubt  him  ; 

But  let  him  to  his  prayers  go. 

And  we’ll  be  merry  without  him  ; 

For  a  merry,  merry,  we  will  ever  be, 

Though  he  lay  on  liis  back  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  — 

Never  meaning  so  much  of  your  reverence,  seeing  that  thou 
art  a  hearty  old  mate,  too  good  to  work  ship  with  the  galley- 
foist  crew  of  7em  ;  and  seeing,  moreover,  that  I  be  merry  here, 
thi>  night,  under  favor  of  thy  locker.  Fill,  brother.” 

“Fill  thou  for  me,  admiral/7  answered  his  host,  “and  mind  not 
my  cloth  if  I  pledge  thee.  I  dislike  two  tliiugs  in  this  mortal  es¬ 
tate  ;  sin,  first — austerity,  second  ;  with  mayhap,  a  third,  and 
that  is  an  over-indulgence  in  good  liquor.  But  for  a  healthful 
cup,  especially  when  the  blood  grows  old,  and  requireth  gentle 
nourishing,  why,  I  can  give  it  or  take  it.  I  have  seen  France— 
ah,  la  belle  France! — her  velvet  claret  o’ervalues  all  other  bev¬ 
erage  ;  and  even  there  found  reasonable  potations  an  esteemed 

3* 


58 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 

fashion.  I  have  seen  the  world  near  to  one  of  its  crazy  centu¬ 
ries,  and  never  found  any  but  fools  or  knaves  to  say  it  was  bad. 
Does  not  King  Solomon  himself  aver  that  no  pleasure  surpasseth, 
in  the  heart  of  man,  that  of  fair  wine,  with  the  face  of  a  friend  ? 
Buvons  done  !” 

With  these  words  of  mixed  encouragement  and  caution,  the 
fine  old  gentleman  surrounded  his  cup  with  his  ever-shaking 
hands,  and  scarce  venturing  to  lift  it  from  the  table,  gradually 
bore  down  his  lips  to  the  brim,  at  last  made  a  successful  lodg 
merit  on  it,  and  then  quaffed  the  grateful  beverage. 

“  To  voice  sante ,  Monsieur  Cure  ,”  replied  Jeremiah,  in  broken 
French,  which,  along  with  scraps  of  many  other  tongues,  he  had 
picked  up  during  his  roaming  life,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
drained  to  the  dregs  his  own  mantling  measure.  “  And  I  have 
seen  France,  holy  brother,  and  mayhap  touched  at  Portugal  and 
the  Canaries,  to  speak  naught  of  a  bit  of  a  cruise  about  the 
main,  long  before  I  turned  skipper  to  brother  Paul,  where,  per- 
adventure,  I  saw  spilt  some  good  red  stuff,  that  was  not  red  wine, 
neither — but  let  that  pass  ;  a  closed  mouth  mars  no  secrets.  I 
I  was  only  a  saying,  that  wherever  old  ship  tacked — whosoever 
were  my  mates,  Dutch,  English,  French,  or — no  matter  whom — 
let  it  pass,  I  say  ;  a  good  flagon  and  a  pretty  face — no  treason 
meant,  though  your  reverence  guess  of  what  sex — and,  ‘  hearty 
and  merry  forever  and  a  day’  (singing),  that  was  my  word,  and 
never  have  I  seen  the  man  I  could  love  that  did  not  steer  by  just 
such  another.  Fill,  I  entreat  thee,  brother.” 

“Thou  shalt  fill  thine  own  cup  for  mine,  this  round,  admiral, 
if  it  be  not  irksome,”  answered  his  host,  vainly  hoping  to  convey 
a  hint  in  a  hospitable  guise. 

“  Think  not  of  it,  holy  brother  ;  I  would  obligate  thee  more, 
in  the  way  of  a  real  service,  credit  me  and  Jerry's  cup  was 
again  filled  and  emptied.  “  But,”  sounding  it  against  the  table, 
as  to  provoke  anew  some  courteous  entreaty,  “  touching  pretty 
faces,  saw’st  thou  ever  such  a  lack  of  ’em  as  is  encountered  in 
this  northern  country  ?” 

“  What,  sir!”  cried  his  host,  very  simply  taking  fire  at  any,  no 
matter  what  slight,  cast  on  the  place  of  his  birth  and  affections  ; 
while  his  disguise t  impatience  of  his  guest  assisted,  perhaps,  the 
sudden  humor.  Jeremiah  went  on. 

“Why,  beshrew  my  merry  heart,  if  I  met,  from  Lough  Neagh 
to  this  port,  a  bit  of  a  sail  that  was  worth  the  hailing.  Not  one 
that  an  old  seaman  would  board  for  the  asking  ;  to  say  naught 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


59 


of  a  chase,  which  all  the  world  knows  is  the  very  sweet  of  the 
action.  Credit  me,  holy  brother,  never  met  I  on  any  sea — ex¬ 
cept,  mayhap,  while  we  touched  at  the  Cape — such  ill-built,  ill- 
rigged,  ill-mizened — ” 

“What,  what  the  deuce,  sir!”  again  interrupted  his  host 
looking  flushed  and  angry,  while  excitement  added  to  the  palsy 
of  his  hands  and  arms,  as  he  strove  to  gesticulate  with  them ; 
“  what  wouldst  thou  say  ?  pretty  faces  !  Sir,  I  will  get  thee  in 
my  own  parish — sir,  if  thou  hast  the  grace  to  attend  my  con¬ 
gregation  the  next  Sabbath,  I  will  show  thee  such  features — 
such  faces,  angel  ones,  divine  ones  ! ” — the  simple-hearted  old  man 
went  on,  unconscious  of  the  questionable  zeal  with  which  he 
expressed  his  raptures,  and  volunteered  his  services — “  yes,  sir, 
and  this  moment  have  I  under  my  roof  a  cherub,  sir  my  own 
great  grand-niece — whose  mother — and  whose  mother’s  mother 
— here,  Peggy ! — and  whose  aunts,  sir,  and  relatives,  to  the 
twentieth—  Peggy,  I  say  !” 

While  speaking,  the  old  gentleman  arose  to  approach  the  in¬ 
terior  door,  as  a  light  foot  came  tripping  from  the  remote  part 
of  the  house  towards  it  ;  but  a  stop  was  put  to  his  further 
speech  and  demonstrations  by  a  prodigious  laugh,  of  unnatural 
sound,  which  burst  from  the  dumb  man,  just  outside  the  window  ; 
and  at  nearly  the  same  moment,  Evelyn  knocked  at  the  back¬ 
door.  The  host  started  ;  and  ere  he  would  reply  to  the  knock¬ 
ing,  strove,  requesting  Jeremiah’s  assistance,  to  huddle  together 
and  remove  out  of  view,  all  evidences  of  unseasonable  merry¬ 
making  ;  Jeremiah  only  tardily  assisting,  however,  and  repeated¬ 
ly  urging  the  retaining,  without  ceremony  or  pother,  in  the  face 
of  any  serious  fellow  who  might  enter,  the  means  and  the  dispo¬ 
sition  to  be  merry. 

When  the  door  was  at  last  opened,  the  dumb  man,  pushing  in 
first,  and  receiving  a  hearty  welcome  from  the  priest,  to  whom 
he  was  known,  proceeded  to  acquaint  him,  in  his  own  language, 
with  the  cause  of  the  visit  of  Evelyn  and  himself.  While  thus 
engaged,  the  young  gentleman  also  entered,  and  advanced  with 
a  grave  brow  to  greet  his  Uncle  Jeremiah. 

“  A-hoy  !  ship,  a-hoy !  welcome,  nephew,  welcome  to  port  1” 
cried  the  really  good-hearted  little  sailor,  grasping  his  hand. 
“  What — art  thou  hearty,  man  ?  art  thou  merry  ?  Eh  !  what’s 
to  do  here  ? — no,  hearty  nor  merry  thou  art  not — is  all  square 
and  tight,  eh  ?  How’s  Essy  ?  safe  in  port,  too  ?  eh,  nephew  ?” 

“  I  fear,  Uncle  Jerry,  any  evil  might  have  befallen  her,  or  any 


60 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


of  us,  while  you  were  revelling  it  here,  instead  of  looking  out  foi 
us  on  the  road,  or,  at  least,  remaining  to  welcome  us  in,  for  the 
time,  your  own  house.” 

“  Tut,  now,  be  not  serious,  goodman  nephew  ;  thou  knowest  I 
hate  it,  and  thou  wert  wont  to  be  the  last  to  bear  a  hard  hand 
Uncle  Jerry  I  may  be,  a  poor  tar  paid  off  without  pension,  and 
threatened  with  the  hulks  ;  but  no  matter  for  that — 

“  ‘  While  his  name  is  Jerry,  he  will  be  merry, 

Without  a  sous  in  poke,  still  merry,  merry  Jerry.’ 

Thou  knowest  I  hate  it ;  and  thou  knowest,  too,  I  could  not 
tell  when  thou  mightst  ha’  hove  in  view.  An’  as  to  manning  the 
new  sloop  by  myself,  and  looking  out  a-head,  day  and  night,  for 
the  whole  fleet  o’  you,  beshrew  my  heart,  ’twas  what  would  never 
do  me  no  great  good.  So  I  even  scuttled  across  to  the  chaplain, 
here,  to  rack  off  a  little  ;  and  every  one  must  rack  off  a  little, 
now  and  then  ;  ’tis  natural,  isn’t  it  ? 

The  clergyman,  having  derived  sufficient  information  of  the 
case  from  the  conversation  of  the  uncle  and  nephew,  as  well  as 
from  the  mute  statement  of  the  dumb  man,  advanced  to  pay  his 
respects  to  Evelyn  ;  regretting  that  his  poor  house — 

But  here  he  was  unseasonably  interrupted  by  his  dumb  friend, 
who,  first  shaking  violently  by  the  hand  the  astonished  and  yet 
pleased  Jerry,  ran  to  the  very  cupboard  in  which  the  bottle  and 
wine-cups  had  been  deposited,  and,  with  extravagant  gestures  and 
cries,  meant  to  be  a  pleasant  attack  on  the  priest’s  caution,  re¬ 
placed  them  on  the  table,  sat  down,  and  motioned  all  to  join  him 
in  a  hearty  draught.  Evelyn  requested  their  host  to  express  his 
disinclination  to  a  carouse,  on  account  of  his  great  anxiety  to  re¬ 
turn  to  his  sister  ;  but  Jerry,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  new  acquaint¬ 
ance,  in  admiration  of  his  movements,  readily  took  a  seat  at  the 
table. 

“  Be  not  surprised  at  his  manner,”  said  the  old  clergyman, 
supposing  Jerry’s  attentive  observation  to  proceed  from  misgiv¬ 
ing  of  some  kind,  and  not — as  it  really  did — from  pure  delight, 
“  the  man  is  deaf  and  dumb,  but  harmless.” 

“  Be  he  deaf  as  a  mast,  and  dumb  as  the  sea  in  a  calm,  I  say 
he  is  hearty.  Your  health,  my  tight  lad,”  Jerry  continued,  nod 
ding  graciously,  a  full  cup  in  hand,  to  his  companion,  who  re 
turned  the  salutation  with  many,  many  nods,  and  many  grimaces, 
too,  of  excessive  pleasure. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


61 


But  this  could  not  last.  A  few  words  of  emphatic  request 
from  Evelyn,  and  Uncle  Jerry  was  soon  sprawling  on  the  back 
of  the  priest’s  horse,  attending  his  nephew  and  guide  back  again 
to  the  Strip  of  Burue. 

They  had  scarce  begun  to  ascend  the  first  toilsome  and,  now 
and  then,  perilous  inequalities  on  their  road,  when  a  stranger, 
also  on  horseback,  joined  them  at  a  brisk  trot.  By  the  Jiglit  of 
the  moon,  he  appeared  to  be  a  young  man  of  about  Evelyn’s  own 
age,  but  shorter,  perhaps,  and  slighter,  with  a  pale  face,  and 
features  which,  although  not  by  any  means  of  a  handsome  cast, 
yet  wore  an  impression  of  grave,  abstracted,  and  intellectual 
melancholy,  that  was  interesting.  At  his  back  hung  something 
enveloped  in  a  dark  cloth.  “  The  blessing  of  the  night  on  ye,” 
he  said,  as  he  drew  up  and  joiued  the  party. 

“  This  fellow  is  not  hearty,”  said  Uncle  Jeremiah,  after  looking 
in  his  face  ;  and  again,  when  he  had  seen  the  appendage  at  his 
back,  “  a  poor  serious  pedler,  I  reckon.” 

But  the  dumb  guide  cried  out  joyfully  the  moment  he  per¬ 
ceived  the  stranger,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  greet  him  ; 
and,  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  cry,  the  young  man  as  joyfully  shook 
the  proffered  hand,  and  said — 

“  Ah,  my  poor  Con  M’Donnell,  is  it  you  ? — Dieu-uth ,  Dieu - 
uth,  and  God  look  down  on  you  P 

“  Do  you  take  our  road,  friend  ?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“  If  your  road  lies  straight  to  Randall  M’DonnelPs  house,  in 
the  glen,  as  I  suppose  it  does,  by  finding  this  afflicted  creature 
in  your  company,  then  we  are  to  be  together,”  answered  the 
stranger. 

“I  am  glad  of  it,”  resumed  Evelyn  ;  “as,  however  good  his 
intentions  may  be,  it  is  rather  comfortless  to  be  guided  on  such 
a  road  as  this  by  a  man  deaf  and  dumb.” 

“  He  has  a  quick  eye,  sir,”  said  their  new  comrade. 

“  Doubtless,  sir  ;  but  I  should  prefer  the  guidance  of  one  that 
can  speak  to  me  with  sufficient  plainness  and  quickness  to  point 
out  a  danger  ;  yourself,  for  instance.” 

“  I  shall  do  my  best  to  serve  you,”  resumed  the  young  man, 
smiling  expressively  ;  “  but  do  not  depend  on  me  too  far.” 

“You  know  the  road,  do  you  not?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“  Well,  sir,  every  stock  and  stone  on  it  ;  or  I  could  not  venture 
out  alone  m  such  a  wild  quarter.” 

“  May  I  inquire  if  you  are  a  native  of  this  part  ?”  still  ques¬ 
tioned  Evelyn. 


62 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  No,”  answered  the  other,  with  a  sigh  that  spoke  deep  feel¬ 
ings  and  sad  recollections  of  home  ;  “  I  was  born  far  from  the 
black  North.  But,  to  begin  my  safe  guiding,  mind  yourself  now, 
sir,”  he  continued,  altering  his  tone  ;  “  as  we  have  got  under  the 
darkness  of  the  rocks,  and  there  is  a  large  black  stone,  hardly 
visible,  just  to  your  right  ” 

Evelyn  looked,  and  saw,  indeed,  by  attentive  observation,  the 
almost  hidden  danger. 

“Thanks,”  he  then  resumed  ;  “and  you  have  spoken  but 
lightly  of  your  own  ability  as  a  guide  ;  for,  though  Con  M’Don- 
nell  has,  truly,  a  keen  eye,  and  though  my  own  may  serve  a  turn, 
I  should  have  been  on  that  rock  but  for  your  warning.” 

The  young  stranger  smiled  again  with  peculiar  meaning,  and 
rejoined  : 

“  Be  it  as  it  may,  sir,  I  say  I  shall  do  my  best  to  please  you  ; 
and  now,  again,  hold  to  the  right  as  much  as  you  can  ;  for  at 
this  place  the  road  has  no  left-hand  fence,  and  slants  very  sud¬ 
denly  over  the  edge  of  the  hill ;  but  perhaps  I  had  better  lead 
the  way” 

Spurring  his  horse,  he  accordingly  took  the  lead,  and  so  con¬ 
tinued  during  the  rest  of  the  journey  to  M’Donnell’s  house,  oc¬ 
casionally  exhorting  Evelyn,  over  his  shoulder,  to  pull  up  in  one 
place,  and  turn  aside  in  another  ;  and  Evelyn  feeling  all  along 
much  gratified  to  have  at  last,  for  a  guide,  a  person  who  could 
intelligibly  point  out  dangers,  and  use  his  eyes  so  well. 

When  all  halted  together  at  the  Strip  of  Burne,  his  guide  fell 
back  to  disengage  from  its  envelope  whatever  it  was  that  hung 
at  his  shoulders.  The  noise  of  the  horses’  hoofs  brought  out  to 
the  door  old  M’Donnell,  his  son,  and  a  crowd  of  people.  Just 
as  they  appeared,  the  young  man  had  got  a  small  harp  in  his 
hand  ;  he  touched  its  chords  ;  they  stood  as  if  spell-bound  on  the 
threshold — listened  a  moment  to  catch  the  continuation  of  the 
air — then  at  once  recognized  the  visitor — and — 

“Carolan  !  Carolan!”  was  shouted  by  every  voice  : 

“  Gead-mille-phalteagh ,  Carolan  !” 

Evelyn’s  late  judgment  of  the  efficacy  of  his  guide’s  eyes,  mis¬ 
gave  him  as  the  name  struck  on  his  ear.  He  had  before  heard 
— as  who  in  Ireland  had  not  ? — of  young  Carolan,  and  always 
as  a  man  blind  from  his  early  age  :  now,  by  the  full  light  of  the 
flaming  stakes  the  men  bore,  he  gazed  attentively  at  him.  The 
eyeballs  of  the  youthful  bard  were,  indeed,  blank  ;  and  Evelyn 
had  the  mortification  to  know  that  he  had  been  indebted  for  safe 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


63 


guidance  over  a  perilous  road,  not  merely  to  a  dumb  man,  but 
to  the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  to  the  blind,  together. 

“  Am  I  a  good  guide,  sir  ?”  Carolan  asked,  as  they  entered  the 
cottage,  turning  to  him  with  one  of  his  expressive  smiles. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

“Carolan!”  said  Jeremiah,  as  all  entered  ;  “a  right  hearty 
fellow,  doubtless  ;  I  have  heard  his  name,  and  more  than  that 
of  him,  too  ; — there  is  Carolan’s  Receipt — a  merry  air  as  man 
ever  drank  or  danced  to.  Master  Carolan,  your  hand.” 

Having  received  from  the  harper  a  warm  return  of  his  greet¬ 
ing,  Jerry’s  eye  lighted  on  Esther  ;  and,  “Aha!  fair  niece,  bless 
the  little  heart  in  its  body  ;  art  thou  well,  woman  ?”  he  went  on, 
kissing  her  chirpingly.  “  Welcome  to  port.  Not  yet  safe  landed, 
indeed  ;  but  yon’s  land,  and  its  only  putting  off  in  the  jolly-boat 
on  the  turn  of  tide  to-morrow  morning — eh  ?  Art  better  ?  art 
merry  ?  that’s  the  word.  Sister  Janet,  art  thou  hearty?” 

“No,  Jeremiah,  I  am  not ,”  answered  the  lady  bitterly,  who, 
since  his  entrance,  had  been 

“  Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm.” 

“  Then  thou  mightst  have  been,  for  once  in  a  whole  voyage, 
were  it  only  to  try  how  thou  hadst  liked  it — deep  sea  take  my 
tongue  to  pipe  the  word  to  her,”  he  continued,  between  his  teeth, 
but  still  in  pure  good-humor,  “  when  she  knows  not  even  its 
meaning.  Well,  brother  Paul”  (cautiously),  “  art  thou  ?” 

“  I  believe,”  answered  Paul,  glancing  inquiringly  at  his  spouse, 
“I  believe  I  am,  brother  Jerry.” 

v  “  Marry — come  up  and  amen  !”  observed  Mrs.  Evelyn  ;  “  and 
why  should  not  all  ruffle  it  bravely,  who  can,  forsooth  ?” 

Jerry  understood  this  allusion,  but  for  the  hundredth  time  let 
it  pass  without  any  notice.  Just  then,  Carolan,  after  speaking 
a  moment  with  the  other  members  of  the  family,  approached 
Eva,  his  little  harp  in  his  hand,  and  asking  her,  in  a  rallying 
tone,  how  many  hearts  she  had  subdued  since  their  last  meeting, 
struck  up  a  sprightly  air,  which,  he  said,  be  had  composed  while 


64 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


thinkiug  of  her,  and  of  which  the  accompanying  words  may  be 
thus  translated  from  the  Irish  : 


My  bright  young  eyes,  my  bright  young  eyes, 

No  earthly  use  they  be  ; 

From  morn  to  night  they  make  no  prize, 

For  none  they  ever  see. 

My  cherry  lips,  my  rose-red  cheek. 

My  bosom,  lily  white ; 

No  lover’s  heart  for  them  will  break, 

For  none  comes  morn  or  night. 

With  my  bright  young  eyes,  my  bright  young  eyes, 
So  swimming,  soft,  and  blue, 

My  lips  and  cheeks  and  simple  sighs — 

What  shall  I,  shall  I  do  ? 


Supper  was  now  laid  6ut  upon  the  table,  and  old  M’Donneil, 
standing  at  the  head,  pronounced  in  Irish,  and  with  much  earn¬ 
estness,  a  thanksgiving.  Immediately  around  him  sat,  inter¬ 
mixed  with  the  strangers,  his  brother,  son,  and  daughter.  The 
table  reached  to  the  other  end  of  the  extensive  apartment,  and 
at  the  bottom,  with  a  little  space  between  them  and  the  party 
at  the  top,  clustered  almost  all  the  rude  men  who  had  attended 
M’Donneil  up  the  glen,  together  with  those  whom  the  travellers 
had  found  in  the  house — the  household  women,  old  and  young, 
and  him  of  the  donkey.  The  materials  of  the  supper  were  fresh 
red  trout,  dried  salmon,  venison,  from  the  deer-park  of  Glenarm, 
and  oaten  cake  and  porridge  in  superabun dance  ;  qualified,  at 
pleasure,  by  a  stoup  of  canary,  and  brandy  and  hollands  of  such 
a  flavor  as  Jerry  well  knew  could  have  been  had  only  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  way. 

The  meal  proceeded,  if  not  in  great  order,  at  least  in  harmony. 
Even  Mrs.  Evelyn,  whose  nerves  had  been  much  outraged  by 
witnessing  the  cooking  of  it,  and  who  could  therefore  promise 
herself  little  enjoyment  from  a  participation  in  such  a  Scotch- 
Irish  hodge-podge,  silently  acknowledged  to  her  own  heart — as¬ 
sisted,  perhaps,  in  the  concession  by  a  keen  appetite — that,  ulti¬ 
mately,  it  was  worth  tasting.  The  meal  was  done — the  table 
cleared — the  cups  and  horns  filled  to  the  brim  ;  and  old  M’Don¬ 
nell  rose,  and  with  him  all  his  family  and  people,  to  give  (Ed¬ 
mund  supplying  a  translation) — 

“  Welcome  and  honor  to  the  strangers  in  Glenarrifl* !”  He 
was  pledged  in  a  joyful  echo  of  voices,  that  rose  almost  to  a 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


65 


sheer.  Again  the  cups  were  mantling  ;  and  again  the  old  man 
rose — 

“Welcome  and  honor  in  Glenarriff  to  the  bard  :  may  he  that 
gives  joy  in  song  never  know  sorrow  in  the  heart  l” 

All,  including  the  travellers,  rose  to  acknowledge  this  pledge 
also.  Even  the  ladies  of  the  party,  following  the  example  of 
young  Eva,  stood  up,  and  raised  high  their  cups  ;  and  she — the 
enthusiasm  of  her  heart  coming  in  tears  to  her  eyes — added,  ere 
her  lips  touched  the  brim  : 

“  The  praise  of  women  and  the  honor  of  men  !  Sorrow  should 
not  darken  his  soul,  who  can  change  into  pleasure  the  sorrow  of 
others.” 

The  old  man  looked  fondly  and  proudly  at  his  daughter,  and 
the  tears  filled  his  own  eyes.  Without  speaking,  he  extended 
his  arms,  drew  her  towards  him,  and  placing  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  as  he  sat,  and  as,  when  she  was  more  a  child,  he  used 
to  do,  kissed  her,  and  once  more  uplifting  his  cup,  gave — 

“  Chorra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  !” — “  The  pulse  of  my  heart, 
my  child  1” 

Evelyn,  surprised  into  an  enthusiasm  rather  unusual  with  him, 
started  to  his  feet,  along  with  every  man  present,  and  as  Carolan 
exclaimed,  and  all  echoed  him — “  M’Donnell’s  only  daughter — 
the  place  and  the  wealth  she  has  lost  for  her  ! — a  throne  for  her 
to  do  her  honor  1”  he  drained  to  the  bottom  his  overflowing  cup, 
and  waved  it  again  and  again.  As  he  sat  down,  he  caught  Eva’s 
eye  fixed  on  his,  with  a  depth  of  expression  that  found  way  to 
his  soul.  But,  in  an  instant,  she  removed  her  glance,  kissed  her 
father’s  cheek,  and  resumed  her  seat  at  the  table,  gracefully  tak¬ 
ing  the  hand  of  her  new  friend,  Esther.  Carolan  spoke  on.  We 
must  be  candid  enough  to  declare  that  we  do  not  follow  him, 
word  for  word,  as  he  delivered  himself.  Having  rather  advanced 
in  boyhood  before  he  began  to  learn  English,  Carolan,  to  the 
time  of  his  death,  spoke  that  language  but  indifferently ;  and  as 
other  individuals  of  less  interest  than  he  may  serve  to  illustrate 
the  blunders — always  attended  by  a  portion  of  the  ridiculous — 
into  which  one  so  situated  must  fall,  endeavoring,  while  he  thinks 
in  one  tongue  and  speaks  in  another,  to  express  the  conceptions 
of  a  rapid  and  poetical  mind,  we  may  be  allowed  so  far  to  show 
our  respect  for  the  bard,  as  to  save  him,  by  passing  over  his 
verbal  errors,  the  chance  of  a  dishonoring  smile  ;  not  wholly  giv¬ 
ing  up,  meantime,  the  native  phraseology  of  his  discourse, 
Is  early  as  follows,  then,  he  continued  to  speak  : 


66 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  For  my  own  welcome,  M’Donnell,  thanks  to  you  and  yours  ; 
and  thanks  for  the  kind  wish,  too  ;  but  you  know  it  is  spoken 
in  vain — God  frees  none  of  his  creatures, — the  king  no  more  than 
the  beggar — the  bard  no  more  than  him  whose  soul  is  dark  to 
song, — from  the  common  lot  of  sorrow  and  suffering.  You 
know  why  I  am  away  from  the  pleasant  places,  the  hills  and 
rivers  of  my  childhood — the  only  hills  and  rivers  I  ever  saw,  or, 
now,  can  ever  see  !  You  know  I  am  in  the  North,  and  in  your 
house  to-night,  because,  for  a  time,  I  would  strive  to  forget 
sorrow,  by  wandering  far  from  the  old  haunts  and  the  old  voices 
that  make  it  ever  flow  afresh.  You  know  that  he  who  gave  me 
the  song— that  was  the  light  to  my  clouded  mind — my  old 
master,  friend,  and  brother,  is  gone  from  me  ;  you  know  that 
O’Kief  is  dead,”  he  added,  tears  gushing  quickly  from  his  sight¬ 
less  eyes,  as,  his  voice  sinking,  he  let  his  head  fall  on  his  breast 

There  was  a  pause,  which  no  one  interrupted  by  a  word;  the 
young  bard’s  sorrows  were  too  sacred  for  commonplace  condo¬ 
lence.  He  continued  : 

“We  parted  but  one  summer  ;  I  came  back  to  meet  him  ;  to 
take  his  hand,  to  hear  his  pleasant  voice,  to  join  him  in  the  song 
again.  My  heart  was  happy  within  me  on  the  road  ;  I  felt  the 
breeze  blowing  from  his  glen,  fresher  on  my  brow  than  the  breeze 
of  any  other  spot  the  sky  covers.  At  the  turn  of  the  church¬ 
yard  I  met  a  peasant,  and  asked  him  for  O’Kief  ;  4 1  am  look¬ 
ing  on  his  grave,’  he  said,  and  wept.” 

Again  there  was  an  unbroken  pause  of  some  length  ;  even  the 
strangers  of  the  party,  with,  perhaps,  one  or  two  exceptions, 
sufficiently  estimating  what  they  heard  to  pay  it  the  proper  re¬ 
spect.  The  appearance  alone  of  all  conveyed  their  feelings.  Eva, 
holding  Esther  by  one  hand,  had  passed  her  left  arm  round 
her  neck  ;  and  now,  while  the  pale  cheeks  of  her  companion 
were  moist  with  tears,  and  her  head  drooped  in  the  expression  of 
the  native  softness  and  tenderness  of  her  character,  Eva  herself 
looked  wistfully  at  Carolan,  through  brimming  eyes,  that  scarce 
ever  gave  a  full  loose  to  womanly  showers.  Old  M’Donnell,  sit¬ 
ting  back  in  his  chair,  turned  away  his  face,  as  if  in  shame  of 
what  he  felt.  Edmund  had  grasped  the  young  bard’s  arm,  as 
they  sat  together,  and — his  figure  twisted  almost  round — seemed 
closely  to  watch  his  sorrow  (they  were  affectionate  friends,  and 
brother-minstrels,  too,  since  Carolan’s  arrival  in  the  north). 
Evelyn  looked  downwards,  his  hand  resting  on  the  table.  Con 
M’Donnell  gazed,  like  his  niece,  on  the  features  of  the  blind 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


67 


musician,  plentiful  tears  rolling  over  his  harsh  cheeks.  While 
the  rude  group,  in  their  mixed  Irish  and  Scotch  costume,  lean¬ 
ing  across  the  board,  also  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  same  person, 
or  else  sorrowfully  and  expressively  on  each  other.  Eva  first 
spoke. 

“  Since  the  cause  that  brought  Carolan  to  our  glen  is  sorrow 
to  him,  we  must  regret  even  the  coming  of  the  joy  of  his  harp, 
although,  else,  we  should  never  have  felt  that  joy.” 

“  Is  not  the  instrument  well  known  in  this  country  ?”  Evelyn 
ventured  to  ask. 

“  No,”  Eva  replied  ;  “  the  common  music  in  our  glen  is,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  on  account  of  our  old  highland  descent,  the  bagpipe.” 

Evelyn,  for  the  first  time  getting  a  clue  to  many  novel  appear¬ 
ances  of  dress,  manners,  and  habits,  which  in  contrast  with  the 
general  aspect  of  the  north,  well  known  to  him,  had,  in  this 
mountain  district,  forcibly  struck  him,  wished  to  continue  his 
questions  ;  but  Eva  anticipated  it  by  more  directly  addressing 
the  young  harper. 

“  Did  your  time  pass  pleasantly  in  the  castle  of  the  old 
M’Donnell  of  Glenarin,  Carolan  ? — and  how  is  our  noble  cousin 
of  Antrim  ?” 

“  It  was  not  that  good  lord’s  fault  if  my  days  were  clouded 
uuder  his  roof ;  and  he  is  well,  Eva,  in  peace,  plenty,  and  a 
green  old  age.” 

“  His  lordship  is  also  of  Highland  descent,  then,  being  your 
relative  ?”  Evelyn  inquired,  again  endeavoring  to  lead  the  con¬ 
versation. 

“  The  answer  is  a  long  one,”  said  Edmund,  “and  involves  the 
fortunes  of  our  family.  The  ancestor  of  the  present  Antrim, 
Surlebuoy,  or  Yellow  Charles,  was  a  Scottish  Highland  chief¬ 
tain,  who,  in  the  old  feudal  times,  coming  over  at  the  head  of 
his  clan  M’Donnell,  wrested  from  native  possessors  what  has 
since  continued  to  be  the  property  of  his  descendants,  and  the 
descendants  of  his  people.” 

“  It  was  a  great  battle  the  two  chieftains  fought,”  said  Caro¬ 
lan,  “  the  battle  of  Orra  ;  and  on  the  top  of  Orra  mountain, 
only  a  few  miles  from  the  house  we  sit  in,  the  cairns  of  those 
who  fell  are  to  be  seen  to  this  day.  I  know  a  story,  Edmund, 
about  that  battle  ;  it  was  told  me  yesterday  by  the  old  lord. 
One  of  your  name,  and  of  his  own  name,  too — for  you  are  all 
M’ Donnells — came  suing  to  him  for  a  new  grant  of  land,  the  first 
grant  being  worn  out  ;  the  earl  was  fretted  with  something  else, 


68 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


and  spoke  short  words  to  put  the  man  off.  But  he  was  not  to 
be  put  off ;  he  asked  him  the  boon  again  and  again,  saying  he 
was  a  M’Donnell.  The  earl  lost  temper,  and  told  him  there 
were  too  many  M’Donnells.  But  the  man,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
him,  answered,  ‘  There  were  not  too  many  at  the  battle  of  Orra 
and  so  turned  off  and  left  him.” 

“  M’Donnell  is  not  the  right  name,”  observed  the  tall,  sickly 
looking  man  we  have  before  taken  notice  of,  when  he  sat  on  the 
hob — he  spoke  in  Irish,  which  was  translated  for  the  strangers, 
as  we  translate  it  for  our  readers — “  neither  was  Surlebuoy  a 
true  Highland  chieftain,  nor  his  clan  Highlanders.  Here  is  the 
story  :  ‘  The  great  grandfathers  of  those  who  lost  the  lands  to 
Surlebuoy,  had,  a  long  time  before,  taken  the  same  lands  from 
his  great  grandfather,  and  driven  him  to  the  Highlands,  with  his 
sept.  Both  were  Irish  septs  then,  and  the  conquered  sept  were 
O’Donnells,  part  of  the  great  O’Donnells  of  Innishowen,  not 
M’Donnells.  But  their  children’s  children,  and  the  children  of 
them  again,  living  so  long  in  the  Highlands,  took  the  Scotch  Mac, 
and  laid  down  the  Irish  O.  So  that  when  Surlebuoy  came  over 
to  fight  a  battle  for  his  right,  he  was  a  M’Donnell,  instead  of  an 
O’Donnell.  Sure  he  brought  other  marks  of  the  Highlands  as 
well  as  that  ;  his  philibegs  and  his  bonnets,  that  are  hardly  yet 
worn  out ;  and  his  half-Gaelic  Irish,  to  corrupt  our  pure  tongue.” 

“  The  words  of  Manus  Oge  have  weight,”  said  Eva,  addres  - 
ing  Evelyn  ;  “  he  is  a  descendant  of  the  undoubted  old  Irish, 
who,  before  the  battle  of  Orra,  wholly  possessed  this  glen.  His 
fathers  have,  for  centuries,  been  famous  for  correct  tradition. 
As  authentic  reciters  of  the  poems  of  Ossian,  they  are  also  cele¬ 
brated  ;  and  he  inherits  their  lore  and  their  character.” 

“  However  authentic  his  tradition  may  be  as  to  the  original 
derivation  of  our  ancestors,”  resumed  Edmund, il  or  the  true  sound¬ 
ing  of  our  name,  I  believe  I  have  correctly  informed  this  gentle¬ 
man  of  the  manner  in  which  the  present  Antrim  estate  came  into 
the  hands  of  the  first  known  possessor.  To  continue  :  One  of 
the  most  powerful  of  Surlebuoy’s  clan,  and  one  of  his  nearest  rela¬ 
tives,  was  the  founder  of  cur  family  in  Ireland.  He  received  a 
good  portion  of  the  conquered  lands,  after  the  chief  had  possessed 
himself  of  enough  for  an  earldom.  He  had  his  castle,  his  estate, 
and  his  own  clan,  a  short  distance  from  our  present  home  ;  and 
they  continued  in  the  hands  of  his  successors,  descending  to  my 
father,  the  old  man  who  sits  there  before  you,  until  Cromwell, 
because  my  father  fought  for  his  liege  king  against  a  bigoted 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


69 


and  bloody  conspiracy,  took  them  from  him,  and  bestowed  them, 
up  and  down,  upon  some  of  the  very  rabble  of  his  army.” 

Young  M’Donnell  began  this  statement  with  the  modesty,  hesi¬ 
tation,  and  even  blushes,  wrhich  marked  his  usual  demeanor  ;  but, 
as  he  proceeded,  his  voice  grew  firm,  his  words  flowed,  his  mild 
blue  eyes  opened  and  kindled,  his  round,  boyish  cheeks  reddened 
with  a  blush  different  from  that  which  usually  dyed  them  ;  he  sat 
erect  in  his  chair,  shaking  his  yellow  hair  in  parted  curls  about 
his  face  and  forehead  ;  and,  in  an  instant,  started  into  such  inter¬ 
est  and  importance  of  character,  as  fixed  upon  him  the  regards 
of  his  whole  auditory. 

“  Yes,”  Eva  added,  with  calmer  energy  ;  “  and  now,  Edmund, 
you  must  touch  your  bonnet,  on  your  own  lands,  to  the  son  of  an 
old  trooper  ;  and  I  must — that  is,  it  is  expected  I  must,  if  I  could 
— abase  my  eyes  before  a  trooper’s  daughter.” 

“  Anent  that  righteous  division  of  lands,”  Oliver  began,  from 
the  end  of  the  table,  when,  the  moment  he  had  so  far  proceeded, 
Con  M’Donnell,  directed  by  the  eyes  of  the  party,  sprang  from 
his  seat,  gained  his  side,  and  seizing  him  furiously  by  the  arm 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  covering  his  mouth,  signified, 
by  shakings  of  the  head,  frowns,  and  abominable  grimaces,  that 
he  should  on  no  account  utter  another  word. 

“  This,”  Oliver  tried  to  mumble,  notwithstanding — “  this  is  a 
plain” — but  immediately  experiencing  such  a  shake  by  the  arm  as 
set  the  bones  rattling  throughout  his  body,  and  catching,  at  the 
same  time,  the  expressive  observations  of  the  group  of  wild  fel¬ 
lows  who  sat  about  him,  he  held  his  tongue  in  good  earnest,  con¬ 
tenting  himself  with  dispatching  a  long  look  to  Mrs.  Evelyn, 
who  sat  as  pale  as  death.  The  dumb  man  then  released  his  arm, 
and  took  a  seat  by  his  side. 

“  But,”  Evelyn  rejoined,  too  deeply  interested  with  the  pre¬ 
vious  conversation  to  take  much  notice  of  the  interruption,  “  why 
was  not  your  family  assisted  by  the  act  of  royal  grace,  towards 
his  suffering  Irish  subjects,  which  marked  the  restoration  of  the 
kite  king  ?  Many  noblemen  and  gentlemen  then  recovered 
t  heir  properties  from  the  confiscations  of  the  Protector.” 

“  Not  many,  after  all,”  replied  Edmund,  “  and  few  of  them 
lioman  Catholic  families,  although  to  Roman  Catholics,  almost 
exclusively,  Charles  owed  gratitude  for  the  struggle  made,  and 
the  miseries  and  losses  incurred,  in  Ireland,  on  behalf  of  his 
father.  Their  Lordships  of  Clanricard,  Carlingford,  Cloncarthy, 
and  Lord  Dillon,  of  Costelloe  Gallon,  received  back,  I  grant  ye, 


70 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


as  much  land  as  they  had  possessed  before  1641  ;  more,  perhaps, 
if  the  truth  were  known  and  justice  done.  But  what  shall  wc 
say  of  the  great  body  of  the  rightful  proprietors  of  three  provinces 
out  of  the  four,  which  make  up  onr  kingdom,  whom  Cromwell 
had  nearly  to  a  man  disinherited,  and  driven  into  Connaught  and 
the  county  of  Clare  ?  The  very  statement,  issued  in  the  name  of 
the  restored  prince,  of  the  reasons  for  confirming  the  disposses¬ 
sion  of  this  great  majority,  says,  that  such  a  measure  was  called 
for,  because  the  most  powerful  and  armed  party  in  the  country 
were  the  usurpers,  and  necessary  to  support  English  ascendency 
amongst  us.  And  that  those  whose  lands  they  had  usurped, 
though  they  did  not  merit  to  lose  their  birthrights  for  the  cause 
alleged  by  Cromwell — namely,  their  support  of  Charles  I. — yet 
merited  it,  because  long  before  that  struggle  they  had  stood  up 
on  their  own  account  against  the  tyranny  of  the  very  government 
that,  a  few  years  after,  cut  off  Charles’s  head.  Was  this  reason¬ 
ing  for  the  son  of  Charles  ?  or  if,  speaking  generally,  it  was — 
how  can  it  stand  when  limited  by  this  particularity,  that,  in  1647, 
the  Irish  Catholics,  chief  movers  in  the  insurrection  against  that 
government,  concluded  with  the  lieutenant  of  Charles  I.,  the 
great  and  good  Ormonde,  a  treaty  sanctioned  by  his  master’s 
name,  and  which  conferred  on  them  pardon  and  indemnity  for  all 
that  had  gone  before  ?  Be  assured,  sir,  continued  the  youth, 
now  naturally  warmed  with  his  subject,  “  that  the  best  English 
ascendency  to  have  kept  over  us,  would  have  been  a  sense  of 
English  justice,  if  not  gratitude.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Evelyn,  “  supposing  Irishmen  to  have  natural 
affections  for  liege  fealty,  or  common  reason  to  calculate  their 
own  interests.” 

“  One  of  our  relations,”  old  M’Donnell  here  observed,  having 
been  all  along  aware,  partly  by  Eva’s  assistance,  partly  by  a 
general  comprehension,  though  he  never  attempted  to  speak  in 
English,  of  the  subject  of  discourse — “  one  of  our  relations  was 
more  fortunate,  though  not  more  deserving  than  we  of  Crom¬ 
well’s  indulgence.  He  got  back  his  estate  for  giving  him  a  good 
hard  blow  on  the  head  ;  and  it  is  well  known  we  did  our  best  to 
give  as  good  a  one.” 

“  I  know  that  story,  too,”  said  the  chronicler  of  Glenarriff — 
we  scarce  pause  to  say  that  he,  as  well  as  old  M’Donnell,  con¬ 
tinued  to  speak  in  Irish,  which,  as  usual,  was  rendered  for  the 
strangers,  and  this  shall  be  our  last  notice  of  the  fact — “  I  know 
that  story,  too,  Randall  M’Donnell.  The  cousin  you  speak  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


71 


is  Daniel  M’Donnell,  who  holds  Layd  from  M’Donnell  Antrim, 
the  cousin  to  both  of  you,  again,  for  five  hundred  years.  Layd,” 
he  continued,  addressing  the  strangers,  “  is  on  the  north  side  of 
this  glen,  divided  from  us  by  the  river.  Well,  when  Black  Noll 
first  came  over,  no  hand  was  so  hard  against  him  as  Daniel 
M’Donnell  ;  he  made  a  vow  to  look  for  him  all  over  the  field, 
whenever  there  was  a  battle,  and  take  his  life,  or  do  his  best  to 
take  it.  And,  sure  enough,  they  met  often  in  the  fight ; 
Cromwell,  in  time,  knowing  him  well  ;  until,  at  last,  Daniel  gave 
him  a  sharp  cut  in  the  top  of  the  head,  but  no  more.  Soon 
after  they  met  again,  in  the  same  way,  and  had  another  trial  for 
it,  but  this  time  Black  Noll  was  the  man  ;  for  he  struck  the 
sword  out  of  Daniel  M’Donnell’s  hand,  brought  him  to  his  knee, 
and  uncovering  his  own  head  with  one  arm,  and  with  the  other 
holding  him  tight,  asked,  ‘  What  ought  to  be  done  to  the  man 
who  gave  that  blow  V  1  The  devil  confound  him,’  answered 
Daniel,  1  for  not  sending  it  down  through  skull  and  jaw  to  the 
chink  !’  Upon  which,  they  say,  his  land  was  left  him.” 

“  Since  we  lost  ours,”  resumed  Edmund,  “  we  have  lived  in 
this  glen,  among  a  people  the  most  congenial  to  us  of  any 
in  the  north,  endeavoring  to  support  life  by  such  agricultural 
pursuits  as  the  times,  and  the  aspect  of  the  country,  render 
available — that  is,  my  father  and  uncle  have  resided  here  more 
than  thirty  years.  But  when  my  sister  and  I  were  children,  we 
went  to  Spain,  to  a  relative  of  some  importance  in  that  country, 
for  the  purpose  of  receiving  an  education,  such  as  our  reduced 
circumstances,  and,  alas !  our  religion,  did  not  permit  at  home. 
We  have  also  been  in  England.” 

“  It  was  mostly  as  a  husbandman,”  said  old  M’Donnell,  “  that 
I  strove  to  make  a  poor  living  for  my  poor  children  ;  and  we 
prospered  well  enough,  as  long  as  we  were  allowed  to  send  our 
cattle  to  England.  But  since  the  churlish  law  passed  by  the 
English  parliament  against  us,  in  that  trade,  even  our  little  cabin 
often  felt  distress,  and  the  most  we  could  do  has  not  always  kept 
the  wolf  from  the  door.” 

“  It  was  indeed  a  churlish  law,”  said  Evelyn,  calculated  to 
keep  this  country  poor,  while  it  could  not  enrich  the  other,  at 
least  to  any  extent ;  and  also  serving,  as  I  believe  my  lord  oi 
Ormonde  represented  to  his  master,  to  cut  the  bond  of  mutual  h* 
terests,  if  not  kindnesses,  between  both.” 

“  It  was,  sir,”  said  Edmund,  “  a  tacit  declaration  that  they 
would  hold  us  only  at  the  point  of  the  sword  ;  that,  if  they  kept 


72 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


us  at  all,  they  would  keep  us  down.  It  came,  too,  immediately 
after  the  final  decision  that  dispossessed  us  of  our  hereditary  es¬ 
tates  ;  thus  seeming  to  intimate  that  we  should  not  live  indepen¬ 
dent,  either  by  our  fortunes,  as  gentles,  or  afterwards  even  by 
the  humbler  effort  of  buying  and  selling  ;  that  having,  without 
one  just  or  generous  plea — without  even  the  right  of  conquest — 
made  us  poor,  they  would,  by  any  means,  hold  us  so.  We  were 
even  cruelly  and  tyrannically  insulted  by  hearing  that  parliament 
called  our  trade  *  a  nuisance  and  this  language  was  addressed 
to  men — to  men  of  gentle  blood — who,  without  one  disrespectful 
murmur,  had  just  submitted  to  the  decree  that,  on  account  of 
their  loyalty  to  Charles  I.,  made  them  paupers,  and  who,  manful¬ 
ly  resisting  the  struggles  of  old  pride  and  old  recollections,  had 
iust  condescended  to  embrace  the  industry  of  which  the  law,  con¬ 
taining  that  insult,  forbid  them  the  practice.  But  well  did  such 
acts  and  words  become  the  spirit  of  almost  the  same  men  who 
murdered  their  sovereign,  and  who,  when  Ireland  sent  over  her 
best  soldiers  to  fight  for  that  sovereign,  on  his  own  ground,  passed 
another  law  forbidding  any  quarter  to  be  shown  to  Irish  royalists, 
— a  bloody  mandate,  well  obeyed  by  the  Roundhead,  until  the 
gallant  Prince  Rupert  made  some  terrible  retaliations.” 

“  Least  of  all  people  in  Ireland,”  said  Eva,  who,  with  glisten¬ 
ing  eyes  fastened  on  her  young  brother,  had  heard  his  unusual 
warmth  of  statement ;  nor  was  the  gentle  Esther  indifferent  to 
it  or  to  him — “least  of  all  people  in  Ireland  did  the  northern 
McDonnells  merit  ingratitude  from  the  restored  son  of  Charles  I. 
— is  it  not  so,  father  ?” 

“  Many  of  them,”  answered  old  M’Donnell,  “were  in  the  army 
that  the  English  parliament  doomed  to  be  slaughtered  in  cold 
blood.  And  Montrose  could  not  raise  his  head  in  Scotland,  till 
he  received  an  Irish  levy,  mostly  from  this  part  of  the  north — 
who,  when  all  other  friends  fell  off,  stuck  to  him  through  every 
change  of  fortune.” 

“  My  father,”  said  Edmund,  “  was  the  king’s  soldier  on  both 
the  occasions  he  speaks  of.  He  fought  under  Montrose,  in  that 
/ery  army,  sent  to  him  by  our  cousin,  the  old  earl  of  Antrim, 
which,  with  a  re-enforcement  only  equal  to  its  own  number,  defeated 
the  Lord  Elcho,  at  Perth  ;  and  which,  by  the  falling  off  of  Scottish 
allies,  afterwards  left  almost  alone,  put  to  rout  the  great  chief¬ 
tain  of  the  Campbells,  at  Innerlochy,  although  he  had  nearly  three 
times  as  many  as  they  were,  and  although  Sea  forth,  at  the  head 
of  six  thousand  men,  was  within  hearing  of  the  battle  that  day.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


73 


“  I  put  a  sudden  question,”  resumed  Evelyn,  “  but  my  interest 
in  all  the  information  you  have  given  me,  will,  I  hope,  excuse  it. 
Have  the  people  of  this  immediate  district  ever  changed  their 
religion  since  the  possession  acquired  by  the  chieftain  Surlebuoy?” 

“  No,”  Eva  answered,  emphatically ;  “  while  the  banishment 
or  extermination  of  the  natives  took  place,  at  different  periods, 
all  around  them,  the  inhabitants  of  Glenarrifif  remained,  and  still 
held,  at  least,  their  religion,  their  manners,  and  their  native  sim¬ 
plicity  of  character.  While  colonies  of  strangers  overran,  almost 
entirely,  every  other  part  of  Ulster,  or  became  so  mixed  up  with 
the  remnant  of  the  old  people  as,  in  a  few  years,  to  confound  all 
distinction  between  both,  this  glen  continued  shut  out  from  them, 
and  has  since  continued  shut  out,  keeping  its  own  customs,  its  own 
language,  and  its  own  race.” 

“  That  is  singular.  I  was,  indeed,  struck  with  the  difference, 
even  in  the  dress  of  the  people,  from  that  worn  throughout  other 
parts  of  Ulster  I  have  seen.  It  closely  resembles  the  costume  of 
the  peasantry  of  Louth,  and  of  counties  more  southern,  except 
that  there  is  some  intermixture  of  Highland  dress,  which  your 
former  anecdotes  explain.  But  nothing  I  have  yet  heard  explains 
the  chief  wonder,  that  during  repeated  colonizations  and  trans¬ 
fers  of  property  and  inhabitants,  in  this  northern  province,  I 
should  here  meet  a  considerable  number  of  people  who  have  never 
been  affected  by  such  changes.” 

“  I  admit  it  is  singular,”  said  Edmund,  “  and,  perhaps,  am  at  a 
loss,  as  well  as  yourself,  to  explain  it.  The  fact  of  the  lands  them¬ 
selves  having  never  changed  their  head  proprietor,  would,  however, 
much  assist  in  resolving  the  question.  As  my  lord  of  Antrim 
had  the  luck  to  be  recognized  by  Charles  II.  for  his  good  ser¬ 
vices  in  Scotland,  he  might  also  have  had  the  power  of  saving 
from  expatriation,  or  worse,  his  own  people,  and  the  inhabitants 
of  Glenarrifif  among  the  number.  And,  thus  permitted  to  cling 
together,  perhaps  the  isolated  situation  of  the  place,  its  remote¬ 
ness  from  large  towns,  and,  withal,  its  mountain  aspect,  held  out 
uo  inducement  to  the  new  settlers,  whether  Scotch  or  English,  to 
intermix,  in  the  prosecution  of  manufacture  or  agriculture,  with 
the  old  natives.” 

“  What  kind  of  Irishman  are  you  at  all,  from  your  own  story  ?” 
asked  Carolan  ;  “  Irish-Scotch  or  Scotch-Irish,  or  what  ?” 

“  Irish,”  answered  Eva,  “  to  the  last  drop  in  our  hearts.” 

“  I  was  sure  of  the  women,  Eva,  as  long  as  you  are  among 
them,”  he  resumed  ;  “it  was  of  the  men  I  put  the  question.” 

4 


74 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


**  Irish,  then,”  cried  Edmund,  “  and,  as  poor  Eva  says,  to  the 
last  drop  of  blood  within  us.  If,  indeed,  our  first  derivation  was 
from  Scotland,  the  memory  of  it  has  passed  away.  This” — stamp¬ 
ing  his  foot  on  the  ground — “  this  is  our  native  land.  Irish  we 
are,  in  feeling,  and  I  will  say,  in  generosity  ; — Irish  enough  to 
forgive  and  forget  all  the  wanton  cruelties  that  have  been  prac¬ 
tised  upon  us  ; — to  forget  the  rank  we  have  lost,  and  be  content 
with  that  which  we  toil  and  sweat  to  earn,  if,  indeed,  that  poor 
privilege  of  humanity  be  left  to  us.  I  would  not  draw  a  sword 
this  moment,  for  the  recovery  of  my  old  right,  when  blood  and 
convulsion  must  be  the  consequence.  Sensible  of  my  father’s  loss 
I  must  be,  and  prompt  to  speak  of  it  warmly.  But  I  find  my¬ 
self  born  under  a  new  order  of  things  ;  the  voice  of  law,  and  of  a 
king,  have  sounded  in  my  infantine  ears,  to  command  obedience 
to  that  new  order  ;  and  I  say  to  myself — as  my  ancestors  gained 
their  lands,  so  I  forfeit  them.  It  is  the  chance  of  the  world,  and 
£  am  content.” 

“  The  words  of  a  good  man,  a  wise  man,  and  a  Christian,” 
said  Carolan,  who,  by  the  way,  was  remarkable  for  the  equanimi¬ 
ty  and  piety  of  his  character  ;  “  and  I  do  not  mean  to  praise 
myself  when  I  so  agree  with  you,  Edmund  ;  as  you  know  that  1 
was  born  at  Nobber,  on  the  lands  of  Carolanstown — the  very 
lands  taken  from  my  people  in  a  time  further  back  than  you 
speak  of,  and  given  to  the  family  of  the  Nugents.  But  what 
have  I  to  do  with  that  ? — I  never  enjoyed  those  lands,  and  so 
never  miss  them  ;  and  God  has  given  me  a  gift  I  can  enjoy,  and 
— let  the  poor  harper  speak — am  more  proud  of.  For,  does  it 
not  get  me  the  praises  of  lords,  and — look  at  me,  Eva  M’Don- 
nell — the  smiles  of  ladies  ?  Does  it  not  make  my  welcome  from 
the  castle  of  the  chief  to  the  cabin  of  the  peasant  ?  And  sit  ye 
not  here  around  me,  this  night,  who  will  swear,  and,  if  need  be, 
fight  to  prove,  that  already  it  has  hung  a  wreath  on  my  harp, 
which  shall  hang  green  there  in  the  days  to  come,  and  call  me  to 
mind  among  the  unborn  children  of  my  native  land  ?  Oh  !”  the 
minstrel  continued,  excited  by  the  theme  he  had  thought  but  to 
sport  with — “  Oh !  let  that  be  the  fate  of  Carolan — let  him  have 
fame  in  green  Ireland — let  him  leave  behind  some  strains  that 
will  gladden  or  touch  the  hearts  of  her  future  sons  and  her  fair 
daughters,  and  little  will  he  think  of  any  loss  besides.” 

All,  except  Mrs.  Evelyn  and  her  husband,  who  had  both  fallen 
asleep,  rose,  delightfully  affected  with  the  simple  pathos  of  the 
harper’s  feelings,  and  once  more  pledged  his  health 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


75 


“  I  am  poor,  and  I  am  blind,”  he  continued,  and,  worst  of  all, 
1  have  lost  a  friend.  But,  come ! — I  will  try  to  be  merry.  Ed¬ 
mund,  put  the  cup  in  my  hand.” 

“  Thou  need’st  not  try,  thou  art  merry,”  said  Jeremiah,  his 
eyes  running  over  with  good  feeling. 

“  Well,  I  am,  then.  What  is  it  to  be  poor  in  worldly  wealth  ? 
— give  me  the  riches  it  cannot  buy.  What  is  it  to  be  blind  ? — 
my  eyes  have  only  passed  into  my  ears,  to  give  them  a  double 
sense  of  soft  sound.  And  why  should  I  even  grieve  for  my  old 
master  ?  he  is  happier  than  he  was  here.  So,  come ! — some  toast, 
now,  to  outdo  the  last — fill  !”  He  stood  up,  his  face,  and  par¬ 
ticularly  his  lips,  eloquent  with  expression,  that  made  the  want  of 
eyes  forgotten — “  I  give  the  father  of  Irish  song — the  son  of 
Eion — the  son  of  Comhal — Oisin,  Oisin  !” 

It  was  quaffed  in  a  roar,  to  which  Evelyn  himself  contributed. 
Carolan  buoyantly  spoke  on  : 

“  Manus  Oge  !  come  here,  old  Manus  Oge.”  The  chronicler 
of  the  glen  rose  and  advanced  :  his  very  tall  figure  was  somewhat 
stooped  from  illness,  his  long  limbs  moved  gracelessly,  his  long 
arms  swung  or  fidgeted  about,  and  his  shoulders  often  shrugged 
up  and  down,  perhaps  from  an  inward  impatience  of  indisposition. 
“  Sit  down  here,  near  me,  and  sing  us  the  Laoidh  of  Oisin 
that  we  all  like  best.”  The  bard  went  on  :  “  Edmund,  get  your 
large  harp  and  accompany  him  ;  you  know  the  old  chant  ;  I 
will  help  you,  now  and  then,  with  this  little  Clarseech  ;  though  no 
man  can  play  even  my  own  airs  worse  than  myself.  I  have  often 
told  you  I  only  use  the  harp  to  assist  me  in  composition  ;  running 
over  it  with  my  fingers,  in  search  of  the  melody  that  is  in  my 
brain  and  heart.  Come,  your  harp,  and  sit  down  by  Manus  Oge.” 

“  Is  it  the  Laoidh  of  Con-More-mac-an  Deirgh,  you  want, 
Carolan?”  asked  Manus;  “or  the  Laoidh  of  Cagavra,  where 
Oscar  was  killed  by  Cairbre,  the  king  ?  or  of  Conloach-Mac- 
Cuchullin  ?”  and  so  he  continued  to  run  over  the  names  of  poems, 
others  of  which,  as  well  as  those  mentioned,  were  on  subjects  which 
another  chronicler  has  since  given,  in  an  adapted  shape,  to  the 
world. 

“  It  is  Conloach-Mac-Cuchullin  I  want,  Manus  Oge,”  replied 
Carolan  ;  and  the  selection  being  thus  made,  and  Edmund’s  harp 
ready,  Manus  began  the  recitation  of  a  poem,  which,  in  a  different 
style  of  language  and  arrangement,  may  be  found  among  the  col¬ 
lection  of  Ossian’s  poems,  before  alluded  to  ;  but  which,  it  is  our 
impression,  has  not  been  improved  in  the  hands  of  the  Scotch 


76 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


editor,  or  in  the  hands  of  those  from  whom  he  received  it ; 
though,  even  at  this  day,  it  may  be  obtained  in  Irish,  very  near¬ 
ly  word  for  word  as  it  shall  now  be  translated,  from  the  lips  of 
the  descendant  of  Manus  Oge,  and  on  the  very  spot  which  is  the 
present  scene  of  our  story. 


“  CONLOACH-MAC-CUCHULLIK 

“  From  Scotland  came  a  haughty  young  hero,  the  valiant 
champion,  Conloach,  unto  the  grand  court  of  pleasure,  Trach- 
tisha,  in  Ireland. 

“  Connor,  Ulster’s  king,  quickly  sent  a  messenger  to  inquire 
the  cause  of  his  visit,  whence  he  journeyed,  and  what  was  his  name. 

“  ‘  I  am  a  messenger  sent  by  Ulster’s  king,  to  thee,  young 
warrior,  to  inquire  the  cause  of  thy  visit,  whence  thou  comest, 
and  what  is  thy  name.’ 

“  ‘The  cause  of  my  visit  does  not  concern  your  king  ;  my  name 
is  of  little  import  ;  yet  there  lives  no  king  or  champion  to  whom 
1  will  disclose  it.’ 

“  The  king,  when  he  heard  these  bold  words,  to  his  valiant 
heroes  spoke  again — 

“  ‘  Who  will  force  this  youth  to  answer  ?  who  will  make  him 
tell  his  name  V 

“Out  spoke  Connell,  the  ever-dauntless  hero — 

“  ‘  I  will  bring  back  a  true  answer  ;  I  will  tell  you  why  he  has 
come  to  Trachtisha.’ 

“  ‘  Welcome,  gay  glittering  warrior,  brave  youth,  the  comeliest 
of  men  ;  but  I  see,  by  thy  coming  towards  us,  thou  art  out  of 
thy  intended  way.’ 

“  ‘  I  come  from  the  East  ;  from  the  brightest  bower  of  the 
earth,  resolving  to  try  my  arm  amongst  the  chieftains  of  Erin.’ 

“ 1  Shun  that  dangerous  course,  in  which  great  heroes  have 
fallen,  or  else  your  tomb  will  soon  be  raised  where  theirs  have 
arisen.’ 

“  ‘  Is  it  thus  you  have  done  in  former  days  ?  did  no  hero 
escape  your  sword  ? — yet  will  I  subdue  ye,  for  all  others,  from 
this  day  to  the  day  of  doom.’ 

“  Connell  of  the  mighty  hand  arose  upon  hearing  the  young 
mans  speech  ;  but  before  his  mighty  hand  was  lifted,  Conloach, 
the  fierce  and  nimble  at  Trachtisha  (though  it  should  not  be 
told),  bound  Connell  and  part  of  his  men. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  77 

“  Then  the  king  spoke  again — ‘  A  messenger  from  us  to 
Cuchullin  P 

“  *  I  am  a  messenger  sent  from  Ulster’s  king,  to  thee,  great 
Cuchulliu,  the  victorious,  to  tell  thee  that  Connell  and  part  of 
his  men  are  bound  by  the  stranger  at  Trachtisha.’ 

“  Cuchullin  instantly  moved  :  he  came  from  Dhoon-Gallagan, 
of  the  pleasant  bowers,  to  Trachtisha,  of  the  great  warriors. 

“  ‘Welcome  to  thee,  noble  hero  ;  but  too  late  hast  thou  come 
to  our  aid  ;  for  Connell  and  many  of  his  men  are  bound,  unless 
you  give  them  freedom.’ 

“  ‘  ’Tis  hard  for  me  to  see  in  bondage  the  friend  who  would  free 
me  in  distress  ;  but  ’tis  harder  to  combat  with  the  sword  the 
heroic  man  who  has  conquered  Connell.’ 

“  *  Refuse  not  with  him  to  combat ;  let  thy  spear  and  sword  be 
reddened  for  Connell’s  bondage.’ 

“ — Conloach  spoke  as  he  came — ‘Peace  between  us,  noble 
hero  ;  look  not  on  me  as  an  enemy  ;  let  our  tongues  speak  in 
prudence,  and  thou  need’st  not  fear  our  combating.’ 

“  ‘  I  never  feared  ;  and  surely  must  I  fight  with  thee,  unlebS 
thou  showest  thyself  a  friend  ;  tell  thy  name,  young  man,  or 
combat  with  me.’ 

“  ‘  The  voice  of  a  parent  has  bound  me  not  to  tell  my  name  to 
any  ;  if  I  could  tell  it  to  one  under  the  sun,  thou  shouldst  be 
the  man.’ 

“  Then  the  two  heroes  engaged.  Equally  strong  and  brave 
was  the  desperate  conflict  ;  for  of  equal  courage  and  great  mind 
were  the  two  most  mighty  champions. 

“  When  Cuchullin  saw  that  he  could  not  soon  quell  the 
stranger,  he  a  sudden  spring  made  to  the  stream,  and  returning 
swift  as  an  arrow,  then  cast  the  fatal  spear — with  all  his  might  and 
strength  he  cast  it — and  pierced  was  the  youth’s  body  through. 

“  ‘  Brave  young  hero  of  the  East,  behold  thy  mortal  wound  ; 
thy  tomb  will  now  soon  be  raised,  thy  name  concealed  no  longer.’ 

“  ‘  I  am  Conloach  ;  never — though  ’tis  my  own  boast — never 
before  overcome  in  fight,  and  who  would  never  yield  to  any  hero, 
though  I  yielded  to  thee— father  !’ 

“  Conloach  1 — the  son  of  Cuchullin  ? — the  rightful  heir  of 
Dhoon-Gallagan  ? — the  sacred  pledge  of  fame  I  left  in  the  womb, 
when  from  Skiach  I  parted  ?” 

“  ‘  Conloach  I  am,  the  son  of  Cuchullin  ;  the  rightful  heir  of 
Dhoon-Gallagan  ;  the  pledge  thou  didst  leave  in  the  womb,  when 
from  Skiach  you  fatally  parted.’ 


IS 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


11  Oh,  my  dark  fate  ! — Oh,  my  mild  Conloach  ! — heir  of  a 
crown — brave — peerless  ! — oh,  that  I  had  met  a  dreadful  death 
before  I  pierced  thy  beauteous  body  !” 

“  ‘  Oh,  Cuchullin,  my  gentle  father  ! — now  is  thy  knowledge 
of  me  too  late  ;  but  I  knew  thee,  and  therefore  weakly  raised  my 
sword,  and  let  it  fall  harmlessly  !  Oh,  Cuchullin,  my  great  and 
wise  father !  who  ever  overcame  difficulties  !  JSTow  that  thou 
mayst  know  thou  shalt  be  without  a  son,  behold  the  ring  on  my 
finger  !  oh,  Cuchullin,  the  most  active  and  mighty,  since  I  am 
weak  and  dying,  take  off  the  ring  and  chain,  and  bear  them  with 
thee  ;  my  sharp  spear,  and  my  keen  sword,  and  my  red  shield, 
that  lies  low  aud  lonely  I  Cuchullin  ! — father  ! — how  hard  a 
lot  is  mine  ! — accursed  be  my  mother  !  she  it  was  who  laid  me 
under  a  vow,  and  sent  me  to  thee,  Cuchullin,  to  try  my  persua¬ 
sion  on  thee !’ 

“  ‘  A  second  curse  attend  thy  mother !  ever  was  she  evil 
and  deceitful ;  it  is  the  greatness  of  her  many  faults  that  has 
covered  my  son  with  blood.  Oh,  that  she  was  now  here  to  be¬ 
hold  the  fatal  end  of  her  counsels  !  Still  lean  on  me,  ConRadi.’ 

“  *  Let  me  now  fall  forward,  since  thou  hast  said  thou  art  truly 
my  father  ! — although  no  other  man  lives  in  Innisfail  for  whom 
I  could  yield  or  fly !  My  blessing  with  thee,  loving  father  ;  it 
is  all  thou  canst  now  have  of  Conloach.  I  am  devoured  by  a 
raging  agony  :  I  came  to  meet  and  to  love  thee,  father  !’ 

“‘Oh,  that  thou  wert  still  safe  without  a  wound,  in  any 
wide  country  of  the  earth,  still  absent  from  me,  so  that  thou 
cam’st  not  to  kill  thy  father’s  soul  !  But  it  is  good  for  the 
Dane — or  for  Spain,  of  the  armed  king — or  for  the  chieftains  of 
fair  Scotland — that  my  mild  Conloach  by  them  did  not  fall! 
And  it  is  good  for  Connor  of  the  Red  Branch,  the  chief  of  the 
host  of  champions — it  is  good  for  him  aud  for  them,  that  it  was 
not  by  his  means  my  only  son  did  perish  !  Hadst  thou  fallen  by 
any  other  hero,  from  any  other  quarter  of  the  world,  I  would,  to 
satisfy  thy  death,  sacrifice  countless  thousands  !  or  if  I  and  my 
beautiful  Conloach  were  in  one  cause,  no  two  heroes  of  the  earth, 
without  treachery,  could  do  us  harm !  If  I  and  my  beloved  Con¬ 
loach  were  together  on  a  hill-side,  united  Erin,  from  shore  to 
shore,  between  us  we  would  make  tremble!’ 

“  ‘  Five  Heroes  have  been  born  to  me  ;  the  last,  under  my  eyes, 
lies  cold  and  mangled  !  The  other  four  fell  in  many  fields  :  but 
I  am  the  miserable  father  that  has  slain  his  only  child,  with  the 
spear  that  overcame  the  mighty  !  From  the  hour  that  this  black 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


7!) 

deed  is  done,  as  black  be  my  heart  forever  !  Oh  !  the  dark 
grief  chokes  my  voice  and  smothers  my  bosom.  The  head  of  my 
only  son  hangs  lifeless  on  one  arm,  and  his  bright  shield  and 
weapons  on  the  other  V” 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Notwithstanding  some  anticipations  of  want  of  room  in 
M’Donnell’s  humble  abode,  Evelyn,  when  the  party  separated  for 
the  night,  found  himself  well  disposed  of.  Mrs.  Evelyn  and  her 
husband  had  first  retired  ;  and  as  the  lady  remained  quiet  after 
leaving  the  sitting  apartment,  it  was  to  be  taken  for  granted 
that  she  condescended  to  put  up  with  her  accommodation.  Jere¬ 
miah,  heedless  of  the  weather,  returned  to  Cushindoll,  to  keep 
possession  of  the  cottage  ;  and  Eva  led  Esther  into  her  own 
chamber — a  small  one,  indeed,  but  decorated  in  a  style  of  neat¬ 
ness  and  simple  ornament  that  argued  well  of  the  taste  of  the 
young  and  fair  possessor.  As  it  was  the  season  of  flowers,  every 
fragrant  one  that  gave  out  its  perfume  to  the  dells  and  mountains 
of  Glenarriff  had  been  culled  to  grace  the  lowly  bower  of  the  hill- 
maiden,  and  lay  in  bunches  around,  and  even  hung  wreathed  in 
garlands  over  her  couch.  The  pale  primrose,  flower  of  mildest 
scent,  abounded,  and  looking  still  paler  and  more  delicate  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp,  seemed  fitly  to  adorn  the  midnight  solitude  of  a 
girl  so  young,  so  pure,  and  so  innocent.  On  the  walls  hung  some 
shelves,  containing  books,  a  picture  of  the  crucifixion,  and  a  Span¬ 
ish  guitar. 

After  a  little  pretty  gossip,  which  the  fair  reader  may  be  as¬ 
sured  was  even  then  in  fashion  between  two  young  ladies  prepar¬ 
ing  for  slumber,  the  maidens  knelt  to  perform  in  silent  prayer, 
though  not  in  the  very  same  words,  or  according  to  the  same 
prescribed  form,  their  sincere  devotions  to  their  common  Creator, 
and  then  lay  down  to  take  their  innocent  sleep,  sweetly  kissing 
each  other’s  lips  (sweet  creatures!),  Esther  held  in  the  arms  and 
pillowed  on  the  bosom  of  her  new  friend.  It  is  amazing  how 
suddenly  young  ladies  hate  or  love  one  another  ;  they  would  seem, 
indeed,  by  their  promptness  in  coming  to  the  point  with  their  own 
sex,  to  make  up  for  their  unintelligible  dallying  with  ours  ;  but, 
however  that  may  be,  never  was  seen  a  more  sudden  friendship 


80 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


than,  ere  they  closed  their  damask  eyelids,  this  night  sprang  up 
in  the  bosoms  of  Esther  and  Eva.  Perhaps,  simple  and  sincere 
as  both  were,  they  had  their  own  little  reasons  for  fully  encour¬ 
aging  the  separate  impulse.  But,  as  this  supposition  is  treason 
to  the  magnanimity  of  disinterested  female  friendship,  we  shall, 
for  the  present,  press  it  no  further. 

It  should  have  been  before  noticed  that,  from  the  return  or 
Evelyn  to  M’Donnell’s  house,  until  the  hour  of  repose,  the  rain 
that,  during  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  had  been  blowing  off 
and  on  at  intervals,  had  come  down  with  constancy,  though  not 
with  violence.  At  the  gray  break  of  morn,  Evelyn’s  ears  were 
filled  with  a  tremendous  noise  of  rushing  waters,  that,  as  he 
sprung  up  in  alarm  to  ascertain  the  cause,  he  recollected  was  not 
to  have  been  heard  the  previous  night.  Running  to  the  little 
window  of  his  apartment,  which  was  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  looking  up  to  the  precipice  that,  at  but  a  short  distance, 
overhung  the  glen,  he  saw  a  torrent  shooting  down  its  perpendic¬ 
ular  face,  with  a  fall  of  more  than  a  hundred  feet.  The  mists  of 
the  previous  evening  had  ascended  nearly  to  the  summit  of  the 
wall  of  rock  ;  but  as  they  still  hid  the  topmost  outline,  extending 
themselves  in  monotonous  gray  over  the  sky,  Evelyn,  unacquainted 
with  the  real  boundaries  of  the  great  objects  around  him,  could 
not  calculate  how  much  more  of  the  precipice  remained  hidden 
from  his  view.  And  as  the  origin  of  the  cataract  was  also  con¬ 
cealed  by  those  wreaths  of  mist,  imagination  began  to  refer  it  to 
an  illimitable  height,  or  else  to  suggest  that  it  was  poured  forth 
by  the  swollen  clouds,  from  the  bosom  of  which  it  took,  indeed, 
its  first  apparent  source.  In  removing  his  eye  to  the  bottom  of 
the  precipice,  a  like  mystery  enveloped  the  certain  depth  of  the 
torrent’s  fall ;  for  it  glanced  and  disappeared,  behind  a  natural 
parapet  of  rock,  in  a  sheet  so  unbroken  as  to  give  no  idea  of  any 
rest  or  interruption,  a  considerable  way  downwards.  The  noise 
was,  to  an  ear  unused  to  it,  appalling  ;  but,  after  some  observa¬ 
tion,  Evelyn  became  aware  that  the  chief  roar  of  waters  was 
caused  by  the  furious  stream  that  struggled  along,  over  rock  and 
inequality,  in  the  deep  gulley  beside  which  the  house  stood,  and 
which,  the  evening  before,  contained  but  a  puny  rill,  that,  almost 
unheard  and  unperceived,  wrought  its  way  to  the  distant  river. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Oliver  Whittle,  iu 
much  solemn  agitation,  for  which  it  is  convenient,  under  the 
reader’s  favor,  to  account  at  some  length. 

The  house  that  gave  shelter  to  the  benighted  personages  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER* 


81 


onr  story  did  not  appear  to  have  been  the  work  of  a  first  simple 
idea,  but  rather  as  if  it  were  constructed  at  different  times,  as 
whim,  necessity,  or  reflection  caused  the  proprietors  to  recon¬ 
sider,  after  a  part  had  been  perfected,  the  plan  in  hand.  The 
middle  of  the  building,  that  which  inclosed  the  common  apart¬ 
ment,  or  room  of  all-work,  seemed  to  have  been  the  primary 
structure  :  at  the  end  of  it,  and  facing  the  huge  fireplace,  a  door 
as  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  wall  as  could  reasonably  be  ex¬ 
pected,  opened  into  a  narrow  passage,  at  either  side  of  which 
four  others  gave  admission  into  four  opposite  chambers.  Al¬ 
though  it  could  now  afford  lodging  to  all  the  immediate  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  family,  together  with  their  guests  of  the  night,  this 
wing  appeared  a  second-thought. 

At  the  right-hand  side  of  the  fireplace,  a  small  door  also  led 
into  a  second  narrow  passage,  which  again  opened  to  the  night 
chambers  of  the  menials — a  large  apartment,  at  the  back  of  the 
fireplace,  receiving  the  males  ;  and  one  as  large,  divided  from 
this  by  a  good  substantial  wall,  inclosing  the  females.  Into  the 
latter  it  is  none  of  our  business  to  enter  ;  but  into  the  former, 
preceded  by  a  grayheaded  retainer  of  the  family,  who  had  been 
with  old  M’Donnell  in  the  wars  of  Montrose,  and  who,  after  the 
peace,  had  taken  upon  himself,  without  any  special  appointment, 
but  by  a  kind  of  acknowledged  right,  a  general  superintendence 
of  every  thing  about  the  reduced  establishment  of  his  old  com¬ 
mander — preceded,  we  say,  by  this  aged  follower,  bearing  a  rude 
lamp,  and  using  much  dumb  show  of  courtesy,  stalked  Oliver 
Whittle,  whom  we  are  at  liberty  to  accompany  anywhere. 

He  strode  into  the  room  with  a  face  as  long  and  as  suspicious 
as  if  he  were  about  to  put  up  his  quarters  among  the  spirits  of 
those  he  had  helped  to  slay  at  the  Gobbins  Heughs.  The  large 
chimney  of  the  outer  apartment  protruded  into  this  chambre-a 
coucher  ;  and  at  one  side  of  the  bulk,  where  the  heat  penetrated 
for  his  benefit,  nestled  on  a  bed  of  fresh  heather,  the  donkey’s 
driver,  in  what  he  denominated  “  a  cosey  nook.”  While  around 
the  rough  walls,  as  Oliver  stood  erect  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
he  could  discern  some  dozen  large  heads  of  hair,  shading  as  many 
harsh  visages,  pushed  from  under  coarse  coverlids,  which  screened 
the  giant  limbs  of  a  like  number  of  stalwart  kernes  of  the  sept 
M’Donnell. 

“  Whilk  is  to  be  my  place  of  repose,  brother  ?”  he  asked,  soh 
emnly,  after  a  pause. 

“  Phat  will  hur  sav  ?”  asked  his  seneschal  in  return. 

4* 


82 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“Wliar  maun  I  stretch  my  limbs?  Whar  am  I  to  taste 
sleep  ?” 

“  Kaw  a hee  aun  suh”  (here  it  is),  thrusting  his  lamp  under 
the  wagon-like  structure  intended  for  a  bedstead,  the  sole  re¬ 
semblance  of  that  article  in  the  place.  Oliver  only  understood 
the  accompanying  action.  While  looking  at  his  couch,  his  glance 
became  riveted,  and  he  resumed,  in  mixed  gruffness  and  nausea, 
“  Tak’  away  from  my  eyes  yon  symbol  of  idolatry,”  pointing  to 
a  roughly  sculptured  crucifix  that  dangled  over  the  head  of  the 
bed. 

The  major-domo  stared  ;  and  “  hear  til  him,  noo,”  said  the 
donkey’s  driver,  in  a  corner.  One  of  the  listening  kernes  inquired 
in  Irish  what  Oliver  had  said,  and  on  a  translation  given  by  the 
young  promoter  of  mischief,  three  or  four  jumped,  primitively 
naked,  from  their  heather  couches,  muttering  no  very  peaceable 
intent.  Oliver’s  brow  assumed  a  deeper  curl,  but  it  was  a  valiant 
one  ;  his  hand  flew  to  his  sword  ;  he  confronted  the  row  of  hid¬ 
eous  apparitions  before  him  ;  and  blood  might  have  flowed,  had 
not  the  old  man  compelled  them,  by  a  few  words  in  Irish,  once 
more  to  ensconce  themselves  beneath  their  coverlids.  Then  he 
placed  the  lamp  on  a  large  box  near  at  hand,  and  after  hemming, 
and  stopping  more  than  once  in  his  effort  to  speak  English, 
“  God  lend  hur  the  good  night’s  shleep,”  he  said,  and  retired. 

Oliver  bent  his  knees  against  the  bedstead,  and  giving  his 
shoulders  a  preparatory  shrug,  and  swallowing  his  saliva  before  he 
began,  performed,  in  a  loud  dolorous  pitch  of  voice,  a  long- 
winded  extemporaneous  prayer.  Then  throwing  a  suspicious 
glance  around,  and  ascertaining  that  all  slept,  or  appeared  to 
sleep,  he  drew  off  his  great  trooper’s  boots,  and,  his  eye  again 
scowling  around,  stole  his  great  sword  under  his  head,  and  crept, 
like  an  old  wasted  spider,  into  the  recesses  of  his  nightly  habita¬ 
tion. 

Notwithstanding  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  his  fears  and  disgust 
kept  him  waking  ;  and,  some  time  after  he  lay  down,  he  per¬ 
ceived  the  old  servant  steal  in,  shut  the  door  softly,  and  walk 
watchfully  across  the  room.  Half  closing  his  eyes,  Oliver  close¬ 
ly  followed  the  motions  of  this  person.  The  old  man  approached 
the  bedside,  and  reached  his  arms  over  him  ;  then  Oliver  grasped 
firmly  the  basket-hilt  of  his  sword  ;  but  the  aged  servant  only 
took  down  the  rude  crucifix,  placed  it  on  the  box,  knelt  before 
It,  and  with  a  prefatory  flourish  of  his  arm,  that  Oliver  construed 
into  determined  insult,  went  through  the  ceremony  of,  as  it  is 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


83 


technically  denominated,  “blessing  himself/’  while  the  accom¬ 
panying  words  were  uttered  in  Irish  : 

“  In-om-in-a-naigh,  augus  avich,  augus  a-spridth  rtaiv, — 
amin  an  invocation,  separately,  of  the  persons  of  the  Trinity  ; 
and  then  he  continued  to  pray  fervently,  in  the  same  language 
often  thumping  his  breast. 

“Idolatry — papistry — abomination,”  groaned  Oliver;  the 
words,  however,  indistinct.  The  object  of  his  aversion  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  bed  ;  another  loud  “  in-om-in-a-naigh ”  fin¬ 
ished  his  orisons,  exciting  another  “  abomination,”  and  another 
groan  from  the  bowels  of  Oliver.  Finally,  the  old  man  arose 
from  his  knees,  took  an  earthen  jar  off  a  shelf,  spilt  some 
water  from  it  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  sprinkled  his  own  fore¬ 
head,  then  the  couches  of  the  kernes,  then  all  round  the  room, 
and  then  giving  the  jar  a  secoud  good  stoop  into  his  palm,  he  ap¬ 
proached  Oliver,  his  evil  intent  manifested  by  the  zeal  of  his 
glances. 

“  Ay,  jest  sprinkle  him  weel  wi’  the  holy  water,  to  kill  the 
muckle  de’il  that’s  in  him,”  remarked  the  imp  of  the  donkey  from 
his  “  cosey  neuk.” 

“ Holy  water! — the  waters  of  filth! — I’ll  have  nane  o’t!” 
roared  Oliver,  springing  up  in  a  sitting  posture.  But  the  vrords 
came  too  late.  The  man  conceiving  he  had  moaned  in  his  sleep, 
in  consequence  of  some  bad  dream,  charitably  came  to  drive 
away  the  fiend  with  an  ablution  that  he  deemed  a  specific  for 
the  purpose  ;  and  ere  Oliver  could  prevent  it,  the  deed  was  done. 
A  good  splash  visited  his  face  ;  he  sputtered,  shut  his  eyes, 
made  various  grimaces,  and  hastily  wiping  away  the  water — 

“  Defilement  I”  he  exclaimed  ;  “  the  waters  of  the  sink  of 
Sathan  !  I  say,  begone  awa’  wi’  your  abominations,  or  the  hilt 
o’  this  sword” — here  he  was  stopped  by  the  reappearance  at 
his  bedside  of  two  gigantic  kernes,  each  with  a  rude  dagger,  or 
skeine,  in  his  hand  ;  and  again  there  might  have  been  blood’ 
shed,  but  that  the  old  servant,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  im¬ 
pressed  on  his  allies  that,  according  to  the  command  of  their  chief, 
no  insult  must  be  offered  to  the  stranger.  So  they  a  second 
time  retired,  muttering,  to  their  repose  ;  while  he,  in  unintelli¬ 
gible  English,  proceeded  to  offer  an  apology  to  Oliver,  and 
moved  him  to  lie  down.  After  some  time,  his  entreaties  were 
successful  ;  and  at  last  he  extinguished  the  lamp,  and,  to  Oliver’s 
continued  annoyance,  took  a  place  by  the  side  of  his  guest. 

The  old  man’s  snore  soon  gave  testimony  of  deep  sleep  ;  the 


84 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


other  sharers  of  the  apartment  were  not  long  in  supplying  evi¬ 
dence  of  the  same  fact  ;  the  donkey’s  lord  contributed  his  minor 
note  to  the  grand  bass  concert  around  ;  and  through  the  solid 
thickness  of  the  far  wall  the  gentle  maids  and  matrons  of  the 
neighboring  apartment  sent  in  an  echoing  chorus.  But  the  un¬ 
lucky  Oliver  closed  not  his  eyes.  He  was  haunted  by  the  night¬ 
mare  of  Popery  ;  he  imagined  he  still  felt  the  holy  water  trick¬ 
ling  over  his  defiled  brows  ;  he  panted  for  the  cleansing  facilities 
of  some  ample,  clear,  running  stream  ;  and  the  summer  morning 
found  him  still  waking. 

As,  with  the  light  of  day,  children  lose  the  terrors  of  super¬ 
natural  appearances,  so  the  morning  beams  gave  him  a  little  con¬ 
fidence  ;  and  he  just  hoped  to  settle  himself  to  repose,  when  his 
mates  of  the  night  jumped  up,  hastily  donned  their  rude  gar¬ 
ments,  and,  along  with  the  boy  and  his  own  bedfellow,  withdrew 
from  the  chamber.  During  this  disturbance,  it  was  impossible  to 
sleep.  When  he  was  left  in  solitude,  sweet  visions  again  began 
to  float  round  his  pillow,  but  the  sharp  tinkle  of  a  little  bell 
once  more  roused  him  ;  he  started  at  the  sound  ;  it  was  incon¬ 
testably  Popish  ;  his  ears  opened  to  listen  ;  and,  just  then,  the 
imp  of  the  donkey  re-entered. 

“  Come  to  the  Mass,  Oliver  Whittle,”  he  said,  “  the  Mass  is 
going  to  be  said,  mon  ;  and  it  will  make  a  gude  body  o’  you — 
that  and  the  holy  wather.” 

“  Awa’  wi’  you,  limb  of  darkness  !”  cried  the  tortured  trooper, 
bounding  out  of  bed  ;  and  his  grinning  tormenter  skipped  off. 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  The  celebration  of  Mass  was,  b) 
law,  a  serious  offence,  subjecting  the  officiating  clergyman  to 
heavy  punishment.  Of  late,  however,  the  matter,  if  done  pri¬ 
vately,  had  been  tolerated  ;  and  the  priest,  either  not  having  a 
regular  place  of  worship,  or  else  afraid  to  use  it,  generally  at¬ 
tended  at  the  house  of  some  one  of  his  more  considerable  parish¬ 
ioners,  to  honor  the  Sabbath  according  to  the  rights  of  the  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  Church. 

In  the  large  apartment  of  the  house,  old  priest  M’Donnell  had 
furnished  up  a  rude  kind  of  altar.  A  high  chest  was  covered 
with  white  drapery  ;  on  it  were  laid  candles,  the  chalice,  and  the 
book,  with  the  other  essentials  used  in  the  performance  of  the 
Mass.  The  aged  priest  stood  before  it  in  colored  silk  vestment, 
having  a  large  cross  described  on  the  back  ;  two  little  boys,  ia 
white  surplices,  kneeling  at  each  side,  attended  him  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  ol  making  the  prescribed  responses,  of  occasionally  a& 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


85 


justing  the  book,  or  of  giving  the  elementary  wine,  or  the  water 
of  ablution.  Around  knelt  old  M’Donnell,  his  brother,  sou, 
daughter,  servants,  and  followers  ;  while  a  considerable  group, 
collected  from  ervery  cabin  in  the  glen,  reached  past  the  door, 
which  faced  the  temporary  altar. 

The  deliberate  clang  of  Oliver’s  boots  announced  his  approach 
to  the  little  congregation  ;  and  presently  he  strode  in  among 
them,  scowling  around,  his  face  more  haggard  even  than  usual, 
and  his  eyes  bleared  for  want  of  sleep.  Assuming  a  kind  or 
superiority  which  impudence  accords  to  such  as  he,  and  indulging 
in  the  terms  of  insult  and  threat,  which  improved  good  sense 
has  since  rejected,  but  which,  by  the  way,  were  perpetuated  in 
that  day  by  a  sense  of  impunity — the  members  of  the  degraded 
creed  not  daring  to  utter  a  word. 

“I  set  up  my  face,”  he  cried,  u  against  this  open  idolatry  ;  this 
unloosed  wantonness  of  the  scarlet  strumpet.  Retire  ye  to  your 
homes  ;  gi’  ower  ;  avoid  ye  ;  or  verily  I  say  unto  ye,  my  voice 
shall  be  raised  in  testimony  against  ye  before  the  counsellors  of 
the  land.” 

All  eyes  were  instantly  fixed  on  Oliver  ;  some  half  under¬ 
stood  him  ;  some  not  at  all ;  but  his  manner  was  intelligible  to 
every  one.  Edmund  M’Donnell  arose,  and  approached  him. 

“  You  must  needs  retire,  good-fellow,”  he  said,  “nor  disturb 
nor  insult  the  devotions  of  the  household.” 

“  It  is  to  retire  that  I  cam  hither,”  returned  Oliver.  “  Whai 
is  the  chamber  of  the  youth,  Robert  Evelyn  ?” 

Edmund  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  to  the  passage. 

Evelyn’s  observations,  from  his  window,  of  the  novel  and  in¬ 
teresting  objects  we  left  him  contemplating,  were,  even  previous  to 
the  entrance  of  Oliver,  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  his  aunt-in¬ 
law,  sounding  through  the  partition  that  divided  him  from  her  room. 

“  Paul,  Paul,”  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  stately  authority  ; 
“  awake  thee,  man  ;  thou’rt  but  a  drowsy  knave,  and  sleepest  the 
morning  away.” 

“  1  am  awake,  Janet,  dear  wife,”  snuffled  Paul. 

“  Open  those  eyes  of  thine,  then.” 

“  They  are  open,  Janet.” 

Evelyn  guessed  she  had  already  arisen. — “  Hear’st  thoi 
naught  to  stir  alarm  in  thee  ?” 

“  What  should  alarm  me,  dear  wife,  and  thou  so — ” 

“  Ask  you  what,  man  ?  Hear  you  not  waters  rushing  and 
roaring,  as  though  they  would  sweep  the  dwelling  hence  ?” 


86 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  In  sooth,  I  believe  there  be  such  noises,  Janet,”  putting  on 
a  childish  face  of  mock  terror. 

“  Rise  man  ;  rise,  and  let  us  speed  away,  then,  from  the  dan¬ 
gers  of  this  wild  place.” 

Oliver  here  entered  Evelyn’s  apartment. 

“  It  is  not  good  to  abide  here,”  he  said  ;  “  the  wrath  of  ihe 
Lord  may,  peradventure,  overtake  us  for  the  same.” 

“  What  mean  yout  now,  Oliver  ?” 

“  I  mean,”  he  replied,  raising  his  voice,  “  that  the  idol  of  the 
Mass — the  calf — the  dragon,  is  set  up  beneath  the  very  roof  wi’ 
us.” 

“  Mind  me,  sir,”  observed  Evelyn,  angrily,  “  neither  you,  nor  I, 
nor  any  man,  holds  a  right  to  scoff  at  the  devotions  of  others  : 
therefore,  address  me  not  in  such  language,  and  beware  how  you 
offend  those  whose  roof  gives  us  a  hospitable  shelter.  Begone, 
sir.” 

“If  it  likes  you  to  sojourn  here,”  Oliver  answered,  “  you  can- 
na’  mak  me  abide  by  your  shouther  ;  wherefore,  I  will  awa’  frae 
the  accurst  hoose  ;”  and  he  stalked  out  of  the  room. 

“An’  hear  you  that,  too,  husband?”  resumed  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Evelyn,  who  had  overheard  this  discourse,  as  she  ran  to 
meet  Oliver  at  the  door  of  her  chamber. 

“  Dinna  come  forth,”  he  said,  addressing  her,  “  rest  you  in 
your  ain  place  of  secrecy,  that  your  eyes  may  not  be  defiled  by 
saul-killing  abominations.” 

He  strode  on,  but  Mrs.  Evelyn  strode  by  him,  and  entered  the 
outer  apartment,  Oliver  closely  following.  The  old  priest  had 
just  commenced,  as  they  made  their  appearance.  Mrs.  Evelyn 
stared  about  her  with  a  look  which  she  intended  should  convey 
dignified  importance,  but  which  might  be  construed  into  vulgar 
arrogance.  She  beckoned  slowly  to  Edmund,  who  was  again 
on  his  knees  ;  he  arose  and  approached  her,  modestly  wishing 
her  a  good-morrow,  in  a  low  voice,  out  of  respect  to  the  occu¬ 
pation  in  which  all  the  others  were  engaged. 

“  Youth,”  said  she,  coolly,  and  without  deigning  to  answer 
his  courtesy,  “  is  not  this  the  superstition  of  the  Mass  I  see 
before  me  ?” 

“  The  sacrifice  of  the  Mass  is  about  to  be  celebrated,  madam,” 
he  replied,  coloring  with  indignation,  yet  his  boyish  respect  for  the 
catechist’s  sex  curbing  the  expression  of  it. 

“And  is  not  yonder  the  Jesuit  priest  to  minister  in  the  idola 
try  ?” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


87 


4‘  Yea,”  said  Oliver,  “  robed  in  the  robes  of — ” 

“  And  is  treason  and  superstition  to  be  done  under  our  very 
eyes  ?”  interrupted  Mrs.  Evelyn.  “  Could  you  not  have  tarried, 
youth,  with  your  damnable  practices,  till  we  had  retired  from 
hence  ?  Paul !  Paul,”  striding  back,  and  thrusting  her  neck 
into  his  chamber,  “  speed  you,  man,  speed  ;  and  now,  at  the 
least,  let  us  take  the  road.” 

Evelyn  came,  at  this  instant,  upon  the  scene  of  foolish  insult. 
The  old  clergyman  had  turned  round  when  the  first  words  met 
his  ear  ;  and  the  hectic  of  unwilled  resentment  flushed  his  pale 
cheek,  and  his  frame  shook  with  more  than  age’s  palsy.  Eva 
started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  with  her  brow  bent,  her  head 
erect,  her  cheeks  and  lips  blanched,  and  her  bosom  panting, 
while  she  grasped  her  father’s  arm,  who,  also  standing,  and  one 
hand  catching  his  long,  white  beard,  frowned  on  the  intruders. 
Con  M’Donnell  approached  Oliver,  as  usual,  with  ominous  looks, 
till  he  was  beckoned  back  by  Edmund  ;  while  a  group  of  harsh- 
featured  mountaineers  more  obstinately  surrounded  the  old 
trooper,  seeming  to  await  but  a  signal  to  punish  him  for  his 
temerity. 

“  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  madam  ?”  asked  Evelyn  of  his 
aunt,  at  this  juncture. 

“  The  rather  do  I  ask  where  be  your  eyes,  nephew,”  she  an* 
swered,  “  that  they  see  not  here  the  Popish — ” 

“  Madam,  madam  !”  he  began,  abashed  and  confounded. 

“  The  jesuitical  treason  of  the  Mass,”  his  aunt-in-law  con¬ 
tinued. 

“  Madam,  this  must  not  be  ;  allow  me  to  lead  you  to  your 
chamber.” 

“  No,  nephew  ;  I  will  depart  forthwith  from  the  roof  that 
covers  them.  Paul !  Paul  !  I  say  ;  lazy  churl,  why  tarryest 
thou  ?” 

“  I  am  here,  dear  wife,”  he  answered,  just  then  tottering  in. 

“  Hie  thee,  hie  thee,  man,”  Mrs.  Evelyn  went  on,  striding 
through  the  crowd,  that,  aware  o'*  the  danger  heretofore  in¬ 
curred  by  attending  a  prohibited  mode  of  worship,  quailed  under 
the  frown  of  the  amazonian  lady.  It  was  an  evidence  of  the 
terror  arising  from  acting  by  stealth,  which,  with  other  causes, 
has  broken  the  spirit  and  debased  the  demeanor  of  the  peasantry 
of  their  country. 

“  Oliver  !”  Mrs.  Evelyn  resumed,  outside  the  door  with  her 
husband. 


88 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Abomination  1”  cried  Oliver,  striding  through  the  crowd, 
after  her  ;  “stench  ! — the  scarlet  woman!” 

“  Niece  !  nephew  !”  continued  the  lady. 

“  Your  husband’s  niece  and  nephew  will  stay  where  they  are,” 
answered  Evelyn,  “  and  endeavor  to  make  some  apology  for  the 
rudeness — your  pardon,  madam,  for  the  most  fitting  word — 
which  you  have  shown  to  the  hospitality  of  this  roof.” 

“Young  sir,”  demanded  his  aunt-in-law,  “darest  thou  insult 
a  lady,  and  thy  relative  ?  darest  thou  afford  countenance  to  Jes¬ 
uits  and  plotters  ?  Mayhap,  it  is  thy  intention  to  conform  :  but 
have  a  care,  young  sir,”  her  wrath  somewhat  aroused  by  a  re¬ 
sistance  she  did  not  expect,  and  was  not  in  the  habit  of  expe¬ 
riencing  ;  “fly  not  in  the  face  of  your  lawful  guardians,  I  say; 
hither  with  thee,  presently,  or  my  lord  the  chancellor — the  par¬ 
liament — the  king — no,  not  the  king — but  all  else  you  should 
fear,  shall  hear  of  it.” 

“  Madam,  I  rest  where  I  am  ;  you  are  not  my  guardian.” 

“  Command  him  forth,  Paul.” 

“I  do  command  him,  Janet,”  but  with  a  voice  and  a  face  little 
expressive  of  authority  ;  in  fact,  he  looked  about  to  cry. 

“  Take  thy  sister’s  hand,  now,  youngster,  and  come  forth,  or 
abide  the  consequence.” 

“  I  will  not  stir,  madam  ;  neither  shall  my  sister  ;  and  I  will 
abide  the  consequence.” 

“Naught  is  this,  stripling,  but  Papistry,  and  treason,  and  con¬ 
forming  ;  and  all  because  of  yonder  Jesuit  maiden,  on  whom  I 
saw  thee  look  so  loosely  last  night.” 

“  Come,  madam,”  he  replied,  at  last  provoked  beyond  bounds, 
“we  here  interrupt  most  indecently  the  devotions  of  people 
whose  creed  is  only  between  their  God  and  themselves  ;  you  are 
welcome  to  depart  in  searcn  of  my  house,  as  soon  as  you  list, 
and  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  ride  so  early  in  the  morning  ;  come 
in,  poor  people.” 

He  waited  till  that  part  of  the  crowd  who  were  without  had 
got  under  the  roof  of  the  dwelling,  and  then  closed  the  door ; 
his  aunt-in-law  bursting  at  the  moment  into  bitter  tears,  in 
which  Paul  joined  her. 

“  Excuse  this,  M’Donnell,”  Evelyn  then  resumed,  as  young 
Edmund  met  him  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment  ;  “  come  into 
our  sleeping  chamber” — they  gained  it— “  excuse  this,”  extending 
his  hand  ;  “  it  has  happened  in  none  of  mine  or  my  sister’s  feel* 
ing  ;  nor  in  ray  uncle’s  feeling  either,  if  he  dared  assert  himself. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


89 


Forgive  us,  if  you  can  ;  and  do  not  let  woman’s  freak  come  be¬ 
tween  you  and  me,  and  the  high  esteem  I  must  ever  feel  for  those 
who  have  borne  towards  us  all  so  kindly.” 

“  It  is  entirely  forgotten,”  answered  Edmund,  his  face  bright¬ 
ening  up.  “We  are,  alas!  too  well  used  to  such  unthinking 
slights  ;  for  I  use  no  harsher  name.  I  am  only  sorry  the  observ¬ 
ance  of  our  duty  should  have  caused  any  disquiet  to  your  aunt : 
indeed,  the  Mass  was  begun  very  early,  in  order,  if  possible,  to 
be  done  with  it  ere  she  or  any  of  you  had  left  your  chambers.” 

“  And,  believe  me,  she  would  have  slept  long  enough,  but  for 
her  fright  of  the  falling  waters.  Please  now  to  return  to  the 
outer  apartment  :  I  shall  stay  here  till  you  can  again  conve¬ 
niently  join  me.  Hark  !  there  my  aunt  rides  off,  with  my  uncle 
and  attendant  ;  can  my  sister  and  I  break  our  fast  here  ?” 

A  ready  and  pleased  assent  naturally  came  from  Edmund. 

“  And  tax  you  for  an  afternoon  repast  ?” — his  host  looked 
more  and  more  gratified.  “  Then  let  my  aunt  entertain  herself 
till  the  evening  at  least  •  some  show  of  spirit  it  is  necessary  to 
make  to  her  folly.  Thanks,  M’Donnell,  and  farewell  till  you  are 
at  leisure.” 

The  Mass  was  said  ;  Edmund  returned  to  the  sleeping  cham¬ 
ber,  and,  accompanied  by  Esther  and  Eva,  the  young  men  went 
out  to  enjoy  the  morning  air  and  prospect.  Esther’s  statue-like 
beauty  of  face,  and  her  usual  sad  eye,  were  now  excited  into 
some  glow  and  sparkle  from  the  novelty  of  her  situation. 

All  mist  had  by  this  time  rolled  away  from  the  mountains  and 
precipices  ;  the  sun  was  up  ;  the  sky  blue  and  fleecy  ;  the  glen 
visible  in  all  its  extent  and  grandeur  ;  the  river,  almost  unseen 
the  evening  before,  swelled  into  a  wide  inundation  ;  the  hoarse 
voices  of  many  other  torrents  than  the  near  one  Evelyn  had 
seen  from  his  apartment,  heard  at  different  distances  around  ; 
and  altogether  the  character  of  great  mountain  scenery  fully 
developed.  With  their  back  turned  to  the  house,  the  young 
party  looked  down  the  glen,  as  it  swept  and  opened  to  the  bay  ; 
its  far  side  running  out  into  the  expanse  of  the  ocean,  and  end¬ 
ing  in  Garron  Point  ;  the  barrier  to  the  left  turning  before  its 
termination  could  be  seen,  but  taken  up  at  a  distance  by  other 
heights,  on  which  stood  the  ruined  fragment  of  Redbay  Castle, 
and  also  running  into  the  blue  sea  ;  while  the  remote  distance 
gave  glimpses  of  the  sister  country  of  Scotland. 

They  returned  to  the  house,  and  met,  at  breakfast,  old 
14  Priest  M’Donnell,”  of  whose  irritability  of  the  foi  mer  night 


90 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Evelyn  could  perceive  no  symptom,  in  the  bland  and  venerable 
demeanor  which  now  marked  the  character  of,  with  all  his  age 
and  infirmities,  a  travelled  and  educated  man.  Breakfast — din¬ 
ner  was  done  ;  and,  ere  the  evening  should  overtake  them  on  the 
road,  Evelyn  and  his  sister  mounted  their  horses,  at  last  to  join 
Mrs.  Evelyn’s  family  circle.  Their  parting  from  the  M’Donnells 
was  warm  on  both  sides  ;  some  tears,  even,  were  dropped  be¬ 
tween  the  maidens  ;  those  of  Esther  coming  most  abundantly. 
Eva  was  besought  to  name  a  day  to  make  her  a  long  visit  at  her 
cottage  ;  Edmund  was  also  prevailed  upon  by  Evelyn  to  accom¬ 
pany  his  sister  on  that  future  occasion  ;  and  Carolan,  repeatedly 
solicited  by  the  young  strangers,  consented  to  accompany  both. 
Finally,  they  left  the  Strip  of  Burne,  convoyed  through  the  glen 
by  even  a  greater  body  of  people,  with  the  M’Donnells  at 
their  head,  than  had  come  out  to  welcome  them  on  their  arri¬ 
val.  As  the  road  approached  the  coast,  farewells  were  renewed, 
and,  with  a  single  guide,  they  thence  proceeded  to  their  own 
cottage. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  received  them  with  sullenness,  intended  for  dig¬ 
nity  ;  but  Evelyn  could  perceive  that  this  was  only  a  disguise 
to  cover  the  real  crestfallen  consciousness  of  his  good  relative. 
He  had  expected  such  a  pleasing  result  ;  for,  young  as  he  was, 
he  knew  human  nature  sufficiently  well — even  that  half  of  it 
which  is  honored  by  being  of  the  fair  sex — to  calculate  on  a  vic¬ 
tory  over  noise  and  words  by  a  seasonable  show  of  resolution. 
In  fact,  he  now  had,  what  is  called,  the  upper  haud  ;  and  he 
wisely  determined  to  keep  it,  in  his  own  house  ;  trusting  that,  for 
the  time  he  was  compelled  to  live  with  his  uncle,  and  therefore 
with  his  aunt-in-law,  it  might  serve  to  obtain  him  some  quiet. 
Nor  was  he  mistaken  in  his  views.  Still  wrapping  herself  up  in 
much  dignity,  Mrs.  Evelyn  grew  meek  as  a  child.  If  she  was 
sublime,  she  was,  at  the  same  time,  silent  ;  or,  in  their  hours  of 
connubial  retirement,  satisfied  herself  with  revenging  every  thing 
on  her  husband. 

The  day  appointed  for  the  visit  of  the  M’Donnells  brought 
them,  even  with  the  full  assent  of  Evelyn  and  Esther’s  guardian, 
to  the  seashore  cottage  of  their  young  friends  ;  and  the  harper 
accompanied  them.  The  weather  was  now  beautifully  fine  ;  the 
walks  by  the  coast  delightful.  Esther  rapidly  improved  in  spirits 
and  health.  Carolan  composed  airs  to  words  of  Edmund’s  wri¬ 
ting,  and  both  played,  while  Esther  and  Eva  sung  them  ;  peace 
was  with  them,  and  about  them,  as  well  as  over  the  whol  1*  ad 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


91 


-even  the  rare  peace  of  sectarian  toleration.  They  were  all 
y<tang  ;  all,  in  different  shades  of  feeling  enthusiastic  ;  all  imagi¬ 
native  and  simple-hearted  ;  and — they  all  loved. 

“  ’Tis  an  old  talc,  and  often  told,” — 

and  a  curious  thing  to  account  for,  how  young  hearts  get  en¬ 
tangled  with  each  other,  and  beating  and  swelling  for  each  other. 
Apart  even  from  the  great  solution  of  the  riddle  proposed 
in  speeches  about  sympathetic  minds  and  souls,  by  which  is 
meant  minds  and  souls  very  like  each  other,  it  has  remained  for 
us,  we  think,  to  discover  the  true  solution — -proximity.  They 
were  together,  and  they  loved  ;  that  is  our  syllogism.  If  it  be 
combated  in  favor  of  the  old  doctrine,  we  rejoin,  by  first  asking, 
rather  tritely  indeed,  how  could  they  ever  have  loved,  had  they 
never  come  together  ?  Next,  if  similarity  of  character  was  to 
have  done  every  thing,  and  proximity  nothing,  how  could  the 
fiery-spirited  Eva  have  loved  the  matter-of-fact  Evelyn  ?  Aud 
the  weak,  tender  Esther  have  loved  the  bold,  manly,  although 
modest  Edmund  ?  And  how  could  the  poor  harper  have  pined 
— we  were  about  to  say,  indiscreetly,  for  whom  he  pined  ;  but 
as  it  was  not  so  quickly  ascertained,  in  the  reality,  neither  should 
it  be  all  at  once  declared  in  the  story.  Moreover,  since  his 
own  tardy  declaration  of  his  feelings  was  the  immediate  cause 
why  others  admitted  the  state  of  their  own,  the  whole  matter 
seems  to  require  a  progressive  and  circumstantial  development. 

Evelyn  and  Edmund  had  gone  for  a  day  to  hunt  the  deer  in 
the  great  chasse  belonging  to  Antrim  Castle  ;  and  their  sisters 
thus  left  without  any  company  but  that  of  Carolan  (they  did 
not  admit  that  Jerry,  Mrs.  Evelyn,  or  her  husband,  were  com¬ 
pany),  walked  out,  arm  in  arm,  to  enjoy  the  air  and  the  shade 
in  one  of  their  usual  haunts.  It  was  a  little  dell,  formed  by  high 
and  sloping  ground  on  every  side,  which  entirely  shut  out,  at 
certain  points,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  every  thing  but  the  sky. 
The  hoarse  roar  of  the  ocean  came  subdued  to  the  lonely  place, 
and  its  own  insect  buzz,  and  the  hum  of  the  wild  bee  among  its 
primroses  and  buttercups,  were  the  predominant  sounds  that 
filled  the  ear.  The  young  harper,  acknowledging  a  fit  of  musical 
impulse,  had  parted  from  them  to  reach  a  favorite  retreat,  which 
was  sacred  to  his  hours  of  melodious  study  ;  so  that  they  were 
completely  alone. 

Hitherto  the  maidens  had  never  trusted  to  one  another  a  hint 


92 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


on  the  state  of  their  hearts  ;  each  plainly  seeing  the  love  of  each, 
yet  sure  that  her  own  bosom  was  perfectly  disguised.  They 
had  been  unusually  silent  during  their  little  walk ;  and  having 
gained  their  resting-place,  they  sat  down  without  a  word.  At 
last  Esther  asked  rather  suddenly  : 

“Do  you  remember  the  strange  woman  we  met  on  the 
way  to  vour  house,  Eva,  the  first  evening  I  saw  you  and  you. 
brother  ?” 

“Yes  ;  but  I  have  since  scarce  thought  of  her.” 

“I  have,  often.  You  remember  her  extraordinary  manner 
when  she  looked  in  my  face  ?  What  was  her  cause  for  that  ?” 

“  Something  very  absurd,  doubtless,  dear  girl.” 

“  But  why  did  she  speak  of  me  to  your  brother,  after  her 
strange  scrutiny  of  my  features  ?  You  were  near  enough  to 
hear  what  she  said,  and  you  know  her  language — what  said 
she  ?” 

“  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  know,  Esther  ;  and  it  would 
be  idle  iu  me  to  inform  you.” 

“  Any  thing  is  worth  the  while  to  ask  or  tell  on  this  idle  day 
— inform  me,  pretty  Eva.’* 

“  Never  a  word  for  that  base  flattery.” 

“  Then,  Eva  only,  or  dear  Eva,  let  me  hear  ;  the  matter  has 
lain  on  my  mind,  and  made  me  uneasy.” 

“And  for  that  reason  I  must  not  tell  you  a  foolish  story. 
Had  you  thought  nothing  on  the  matter — had  you  a  mind  in¬ 
different  to  such  childishness — I  would  freely  impart  what  that 
idle  woman  said ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  will  save  you  from  imaginary 
flights,  that  cannot  increase  your  happiness,  Esther.” 

“  Now,  indeed,  you  startle  me.  The  occurrence  I  witnessed 
had  no  such  effect  as  your  reasons  for  remaining  silent,  Eva  ; 
nor  can  your  free  confidence  and  speech,  whatever  you  may  dis¬ 
close,  do  half  the  injury  to  my  mind  and  spirits,  that  your  allu¬ 
sions  have  done  already.” 

“  I  see,  indeed,  I  used  an  injudicious  method  of  discourse  with 
you,  and  am  sorry  for  it,  dear  Esther  ;  and  perhaps  my  speaking 
t'reely  will,  as  you  say,  now  do  less  real  harm  than  my  silence  : 
but  can  you  faithfully  promise  me  to  laugh,  as  I  do,  at  the  whole 
you  shall  hear  ?  ’Tis  silly,  Esther,  from  beginning  to  end,  with 
nothing  to  depend  on  but  the  ravings,  or  perhaps  wilful  false¬ 
hood,  of  that  poor  woman.” 

“  Be  assured  I  shall  treat  it  as  lightly  as,  on  such  showing, 
it  deserves,  or  as  you  do  ;  but  go  on.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


93 


"  You  know  that  on  the  eve  of  All  Saints’  Day,  along  with 
acting  some  harmless-  pastimes,  it  is  the  weak,  and  indeed  sinful, 
custom  of  the  peasantry,  to  invoke  the  evil  name,  that,  by  its 
influence,  they  may  see  the  shadowy  resemblance  of  the  person 
they  are  doomed  to  love.  Well ;  on  the  last  coming  of  that 
blessed  eve,  as  my  brother  and  I,  and  a  circle  of  young  friends, 
sat  around  the  fire  in  my  father’s  house,  Onagh  of  the  cavern 
lifted  the  latch  of  our  door,  entered,  and  sat  down  silently 
amongst  us.  She  had  great  fame  with  the  poor  people,  for  her 
knowledge  of  the  little  ceremonies  to  be  gone  through  on  All 
Saints’  Eve,  and  it  was  her  custom  to  visit  different  houses  that 
she  might  direct  them  ;  but  this  was  her  first  visit  to  us.  Her 
pale,  undisturbed  face,  and  her  silence,  had  a  disagreeable  effect 
on  our  sports  ;  yet  we  proceeded  in  them,  while  Onagh  looked 
on.  We  hid  the  ring,  melted  the  lead,  sent  the  blindfolded 
seeker  of  his  fate  to  the  four  plates  of  salt,  ashes,  water,  and  earth, 
burned  the  nuts  in  the  names  of  any  two  we  destined  for  each 
other,  with  other  like  things.  Still  Onagh  did  not  speak  a 
word  ;  and  at  last,  affected  by  her  strange  demeanor,  we  became 
as  silent  and  inactive  as  herself.  Then,  however,  she  found  her 
tongue.  ‘  All  is  done  that  you  can  do,’  she  said,  *  and  yet  noth¬ 
ing  that  was  worth  the  doing.  I  can  show,  any  time,  till  the 
cock  crows  for  midnight,  the  man  or  the  woman  any  of  ye  are  to 
love.’  A  girl  of  the  house  taking  her  at  her  word,  rose  with 
Onagh,  and  both  retired  into  a  chamber,  dark  but  for  a  dull  fire 
that  was  allowed  to  burn  out  in  it.  I  suppose  you  know  as  well 
as  I  the  various  forms  in  which  the  wicked  invocation  is  made  ; — 
in  the  present  instance,  Onagh  caused  the  young  girl  to  take  off 
and  wash  a  part  of  her  dress,  and  then  spread  it  out  on  a  chair 
to  drj  before  the  fire.  Soon  after  they  had  retired,  we  heard  a 
scream,  and  the  silly  girl  ran  to  us  from  the  dark  chamber,  say¬ 
ing  that  a  strange  man  had,  while  she  and  Onagh  stood  with 
their  backs  to  the  door,  advanced  to  the  fire,  and  turned  the  ar¬ 
ticle  of  dress  which  was  spread  out  on  the  chair.  Of  course,  she 
iither  wilfully  told  a  falsehood,  or  else  the  terrors  of  imagination 
had  imposed  on  her. 

“  My  brother  and  I  asserted  our  disbelief  of  what  she  said  ; 
and  Onagh  offered  to  convince  me,  in  my  own  person,  of  the 
efficacy  of  her  invocations,  if  I  would  retire  into  the  chamber 
with  her  ;  but  I  refused,  not  indeed  in  fear,  Esther,  but  in 
cou  tempt,  and  a  dislike  to  do,  idly  and  uselessly,  a  sinful 
thing.  Edmund,  in  a  bantering  tone,  challenged  her  to  show 


94 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


him  the  lady  he  was  to  love  ;  and  Onagh  assented,  on  condi¬ 
tion  that  he  would  go  out  with  her  to  the  river-side,  as,  to  con¬ 
vince  him,  another  kind  of  form  was  to  be  gone  through  :  he  did 
so  against  my  entreaties,  and  left  the  house  laughing  and  light¬ 
hearted. 

“  In  some  time  he  came  back,  alone,  with  an  altered  air  ; 
but,  when  we  asked  him  of  what  had  happened,  and  why  he 
looked  so,  he  answered,  again  in  good  spirits,  that  he  was  only 
tired  from  clambering  over  such  uneven  ground  as  lay  between 
him  and  the  river,  and  that  Onagh  had  shown  him  nothing 
for  all  his  trouble,  but  a  white-faced  horse.  The  subject 
dropped  ;  and  till  the  evening  we  met  you,  Esther,  was  never 
renewed.” 

“  But  it  was,  then  ? — and  it  was  to  it  that  Onagh  made  allu¬ 
sion,  when  she  looked  on  me  ?  Did  not  your  brother  report  truly 
of  his  adventure?” 

“  He  told  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth  ;  and  what  he 
suppressed  did  not  seem  to  him  worth  mentioning.  But  he 
forgot  to  say  that  Onagh  warmly  insisted  there  had  been  an 
apparition  visible  to  her — a  pale  and  beautiful  young  lady  ; 
and  this  he  told  me  since  your  coming  to  our  glen  ;  for  I,  as 
well  as  you,  wished  to  understand  the  allusions  of  Onagh, 
though  I  made  so  light  of  them,  and  therefore  asked  him  tc 
tell  me.” 

“  Go  on,  dear  Eva,”  said  Esther,  wishing  to  hear  recited  the 
application  that  was  obvious  to  herself. 

“  There  is  nothing  to  be  added  but  what  you  witnessed  :  when 
Onagh  saw  your  face,  at  the  cavern,  she  told  him  it  was  the  face 
of  the  apparition  by  the  river-side.” 

“  What,  Eva  ? — my  face  V’ — blushing  deep  as  scarlet,  and 
affecting  as  much  simple  astonishment  as  was  possible  ; — 
“now,  indeed,  I  see  the  absurdity  you  promised  me.  And 
yet,  another  question.  There  was,  in  Onagh’s  recognition  of 
her  old  acquaintance,  any  thing  but  pleasure,  or  good-will,  or 
satisfaction  in  such  a  face  for  the  very  improbable  destiny  to 
which  she  was  pleased  to  doom  it.  I  thought  she  started  back 
in  alarm  and  dislike  of  me  ;  and  her  violent  manner,  when  she 
ran  to  speak  with  your  brother,  the  sound  and  pitch  of  her  voice, 
certainly  denoted  more  than  a  simple  declaration  that  I  was 
the  reality  of  her  spectre.  Can  you  explain  this?  Again  I 
recollect  you  were  near  enough  to  catch  her  words — what  did 
ehe  say  ?” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


95 


“  I  need  not  disguise,  no  more  than  any  other  part  of  the 
foolery,  that  Onagh  certainly  expressed  dislike  of  you,  for,  as  you 
say,  the  purposes  to  which  she  first  destined  you,  and  earnestly 
commanded  my  brother  to  keep  his  heart  guarded  against  your 
infatuations.” 

“  He  has  not  followed  her  advice  ;  that  I  have  plainly  seen,  a 
thousand  times,”  thought  Esther.  “  Well,  Eva,  it  was  at  least 
very  inconsistent,  you  will  admit  ;  can  you  now  tell  me  the  cause 
of  her  aversion  ?” 

“  Onagh,  herself,  must  there  satisfy  you,  as  I  do  not  pre¬ 
tend  ability  to  find,  according  to  the  calculations  of  the  little 
common  sense  I  have,  good  reasons  for  the  raving  or  misstate¬ 
ment  of  a  fool  or  impostor  yet  Eva  was  here  guilty  of  a  little 
ingenuous  reservation — she  really  knew  the  cause  of  Onagh’s 
dislike  to  Esther  as  the  lady  of  Edmund’s  love,  but,  with  a 
general  appearance  of  confidence,  this — the  chief  point  on  which 
she  feared  to  give  uneasiness  to  her  friend — she  was  resolved  not 
to  communicate. 

Esther  grew  silent,  and  Eva,  too,  fell  into  a  reverie,  of  a 
nature  not  unlike  that  of  her  companion.  When  they  again 
spoke,  it  was  on  a  subject  seemingly  disconnected  with  the  former 
one,  yet  really  associated  by  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

“  Have  you  noticed  the  harper’s  melancholy  of  late  ?”  asked 
Esther,  by  and  by. 

“  I  have,  indeed,”  answered  Eva. 

“  Ho  you  guess  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?” 

“  I  do,  as  well  as  you  ; — he  loves.” 

“  Whom  ?” 

“  Either  of  us.” 

“  But  which  ?” 

“  That  I  cannot  positively  say  ;  but  I  think  it  may  be  yourself/ 
“  You  speak  this  seriously  ?” 

“  Seriously  ;  from  my  heart.” 

“Then,  as  seriously,  I  say  that  I  believe  you  are  the  object  of 
his  devotion.” 


96 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Your  reasons  ?” 

“  Why,  you  form  the  theme  of  his  discourse  whenever  he  and 
I  are  alone  ;  he  sighs  at  each  mention  of  your  name  ;  he  has  ad¬ 
dressed  a  sweet  air  to  you  ;  and  he  knows  you  longer  than  me.” 

“  But  he  scarce  ever  finds  a  topic  for  my  ear  but  Esther  ;  if 
he  sighs,  it  is  in  your  company  ;  he  walks  ever  with  you  ;  he  has 
framed  as  sweet  an  air  for  you  ;  and,”  Eva  added,  with  a  sigii  o 
her  own,  “he  knows  you  long  enough  to  love  eternally.” 

“  Here  he  comes,  however,  to  afford  us  more  observations,’ 
said  Esther.  Carolan,  indeed,  appeared  in  the  narrow,  but  level 
way  that  led  into  the  little  retreat,  walking  erectly,  and  with 
the  measured  firmness  of  step  that  marks  the  gait  of  a  blind  man, 
although  his  pace  seemed  less  spirited  than  usual.  He  was  with¬ 
out  his  harp,  and  guided  himself  merely  by  tapping  a  switch  on 
the  ground  before  him,  as  he  had  grown  quite  familiar  with  the 
roads  and  paths  generally  walked  over  by  the  young  party. 

“  He  looks  sadder  than  ever,”  said  Esther.  Carolan  caught, 
at  some  distance,  the  very  low  tone  in  which  she  spoke,  and  his 
pensive  expression  of  face  instantly  brightened  up,  and  his 
mouth  wore  its  beautiful  smile,  as  he  said,  “Ay,  here  I  knew  I 
should  find  you  both.” 

“  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  err,  Eva,  in  believing  me  beloved 
by  this  poor  young  harper,”  Esther  continued,  in  a  whisper,  ere 
he  had  quite  reached  them. 

“  And  why  do  you  hope  so,  Esther  ?” 

“  I  should  not  wish,”  answered  Esther,  blushing  under  the  ex¬ 
pressive  glance  which  accompanied  the  question,  “  I  should  not 
wish  to  see  him  love  where  he  cannot  find  love  in  return.” 

“  Carolan  has  many  captivations  ;  it  is  not  impossible  to  love 
him.” 

“For  me  it  is.” 

“  Why  ?” 

“  I  do  not  know  ;  we  cannot  compel  love.” 

“  Is  that  the  only  reason  ?”  Eva  continued  to  ask  with  a  smile, 
idien,  fortunately  for  Esther,  Carolan  came  too  near  to  permit 
her  answer  ;  we  say  fortunately,  for  we  believe  the  answer  would 
have  been  a  little  sin,  in  the  shape  of  a  little — we  shall  not  say  what. 

“  I  could  not  draw  the  tune  out  of  my  head,”  he  said,  stand¬ 
ing  straight  before  them,  equally  balanced  on  both  feet ;  “  it 
would  not  come  for  me,  or  else  there  is  no  good  in  my  clarseech,  or 
my  fingers,  this  day  ;  yet,  in  my  head  and  heart  it  is,  if  ever  I 
had  one  in  them  ;  the  music  of  a  calling  to  battle,  and  the  gatl* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


97 


ering  for  a  battle,  and  the  battle  itself,  fought  by  fine  proud  sol¬ 
diers,  on  fine  steeds,  and  the  victory,  the  shouting,  and  the 
glory.” 

“Idle,  idle  Carolan,”  said  Eva  ;  “you  could  have  put  it  all 
on  your  harp,  if  you  would  ;  and  now  it  will  grow  cold  in  your 
head  and  heart,  and  we  shall  lose  it  forever.” 

“  I  could  not  put  it  on  the  harp,  indeed,”  he  resumed ;  “  my 
fingers  strayed  over  and  over  the  strings,  but  brought  no  sounds 
that  I  wanted ;  only,  instead  of  such,  came  sad  thrillings  and 
low  tones  of  the  wire,  that  made  me  weep  for  company.” 

“  Sit  down  by  Esther  here,  and  now  smile  to  her  for  company. 
I  am  wanted,  for  a  little  space,  by  your  aunt,  Esther,  but  shall 
return  to  seek  you.” 

“  Of  friendless  youth  and  hopeless  love,”  the  young  minstrel 
continued,  taking  Eva’s  place,  as  she  left  them,  “  were  the  only 
sounds  of  my  clarseech.” 

“And  why  should  they  be  the  only  sounds,  Carolan  ?” 

“  They  made  the  echo  of  my  fortunes,”  he  said,  sighing  sadly. 

“  Nay,  friendless  you  must  not  call  yourself ;  and  when  you 
love,  Carolan,  why  should  it  be  all  hopelessly  ?” 

“  First,  sweet  lady,  I  am  a  poor  harper,  and  women’s  love  asks, 
and  should  get,  more  honors  than  my  poverty  can  bestow.  1 
could  honor  her  love  in  the  song,”  he  continued  proudly,  though 
mildly  ;  then,  with  another  sigh,  “  but  even  she  who  can  feel 
proud  at  the  minstrel’s  praise,  will  slight  the  minstrel.  I  am 
blind,  too  ;  do  you  think  it  has  ever  happened  that  a  beautiful 
lady  loved  a  blind  man  ?” 

“  I  know  not  that  it  has  happened,”  Esther  replied,  “  for  my 
experience  is  little  ;  but  I  see  no  reason  it  should  not.  Blind¬ 
ness,  though  a  great  visitation,  is  the  least  disagreeable  of 
bodily  infirmities  ;  indeed,  it  is  soon  and  entirely  forgotten,  when 
he  who  is  afflicted  by  it  has  gentle  manners,  and,  above  all,  great 
talents.” 

“Then  you,  dear  lady,”  Carolan  asked,  in  much  simplicity, 
“you  could  listen  to  the  suit  of  a  blind  harper?” 

“  I  could  ;  but,  Carolan,  this  matter  now  requires  from  me  an 
honorable  and  prompt  avowal,  for  I  must  not  seem  to  misunder¬ 
stand  you,  and  it  is  a  woman’s  part  to  end,  as  soon  as  she  has  an 
opportunity,  the  pain  she  unwittingly  causes.  I  esteem  and  hon¬ 
or  you  for  your  talents,  your  manners,  and  your  good  qualities  : 
nor  is  your  person  disagreeable.  And  I  could  have  felt — it  is 
possible  I  might  have  felt  another  sentiment,  but  that” — she 

5 


98 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


hesitated — “  I  may  seem  to  make  an  unmaidenly  avowal ;  I  think 
I  owe  you  the  full  explanation  it  conveys.  Therefore,  Carolan, 
hear  me  say — but  that  I  loved  another.” 

“  I  have  erred,”  he  resumed,  with  little  of  the  agitation  the 
gentle  maiden  supposed  should  be  visible  after  her  repulse.  “  I 
must  have  greatly  erred  in  my  words  to  make  you  think  this 
confidence  necessary  ;  and  I  crave  your  pardon,  dear  lady,  for 
the  imperfection  of  my  English  speech.  Alas !  alas !  Eva 
M’Donnell  it  is  that  has  put  the  sorrow  on  my  heart  this  day.” 

“  Then,  Carolan,”  said  Esther,  rising,  and  not  half  so  pleased 
with  her  exemption  from  the  harper’s  devotions,  as  her  former 
avowals  to  her  friend  would  seem  to  make  certain,  “  why  not  at 
}nce  afford  Eva  M’Donnell  the  occasion  of  speaking  to  you  as 
plainly  as  I  have  done,  and  which,  however  she  may  regard  your 
love,  I  know  she  will  do  ?” 

“  I  fear  to  offend  her  ;  I  feared  all  along  to  show  her  that  I 
dared  to  love.  Her  grand  spirit,  if  she  knew  it,  would  crush  and 
kill  my  heart.” 

“  I  will  engage  for  my  friend,  that  no  word  she  utters,  what¬ 
ever  may  be  her  answer,  will  hurt  your  ear.  I  will  do  more  ;  if 
you  permit  me  to  save  you  an  intimation  of  your  feelings,  I  will,  this 
moment,  seek  her,  and  engage  that  she  shall  come  hither  to  reply 
to  them.” 

“  Oh,  that  would  be  too  sudden,”  he  said,  greatly  agitated  ; 
“  but,  do  you  think — do  you  know,  as  from  your  speech  I  fear 
you  do,  that  the  flower  of  Glenarriff  has  already  seen,  and  already 
despised  my  love  ?” 

“  I  know  that  she  is  unconscious  you  love  her  ;  what  may  be 
her  affections  towards  you  I  cannot  tell.  But  I  see  her  approach¬ 
ing  us  at  a  distance  ;  shall  I  speak  to  Eva  for  you,  Carolan  ?” 

“  Oh,  no,  no,”  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands.  But  after  a 
pause,  “Yet  do — do,  sweet  lady  ;  I  will  know  my  lot  at  once, 
do,  and,”  taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it,  while  his  tears  fell  fast, 
“the  joy  of  this  life,  and  the  blessing  of  God  be  upon  the  wish  of 
your  own  heart  !” 

Esther  accordingly  went  to  meet  Eva.  The  young  ladies  spoke 
but  a  short  time,  when  Eva  M’Donnell  parted  from  her  friend, 
swept  along  the  little  approach  to  the  dell,  and  entered  it  with  a 
rapid  step,  an  erect  figure,  an  arching  neck,  and  a  flushed  cheek. 

“  That  is  her  foot,”  said  Carolan,  “  treading  the  earth  as  she 
would  on  me,  and  bruising  its  tender  flowers  as  she  comes  to 
bruise  my  hope.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


99 


Eva  found  liim  standing  ;  the  state  of  his  feelings  did  not  per¬ 
mit  him  to  remain  at  rest,  and  he  still  stood  upright,  althougn  his 
limbs  shook,  his  face  was  pale,  and  his  features  showed  the  de¬ 
spairing  anticipations  of  his  spirit. 

“  Carolan  1”  she  began,  the  moment  she  entered  the  dell ;  “  but 
sit  down,  dear  Carolan,  this  affects  you  too  much  ;  take  my  hand, 
sit  down,  and  grow  calmer  ere  we  speak.” 

He  did  take,  or  rather  touch  her  hand  ;  she  led  him  to  a  bank 
of  wild-flowers  ;  sat  by  his  side  ;  and  there  was  a  long  pause, 
which  the  minstrel  did  not  interrupt,  even  by  one  of  the  sighs 
that  were  breaking  his  heart  for  utterance.  At  last  Eva  went  on  : 

“  You,  dear  Carolan,  of  all  men  upon  the  earth,  have  honored 
me  in  this  matter  ;  you,  of  all  men  upon  the  earth,  shall  not 
suffer  a  moment’s  uncertainty  which  I  can  prevent.  Esther 
Evelyn  has  told  me  you  love  me  :  my  bosom  fills  with  pride  to 
hear  it  said  ;  I  thank  you  ;  I  am  grateful ;  but  let  one  word  end 
it — I,  too,  love — and,  alas !  alas  !  not  Carolan.” 

“  Well,”  he  said,  in  a  low,  almost  inaudible  voice — “  well,  it  is, 
and  it  is  not  what  I  expected.  I  knew  you  could  never  think  of 
me,  Eva  ;  so  far,  your  answer  agrees  with  my  despair.  But  I 
feared  also  you  would  have  spurned  me  harshly  and  cruelly — and 
— and  this  kindness,  goodness” — tears  now  suffused  his  blank  eyes 
and  streamed  over  his  cheeks.  “  Oh,  Eva,  it  is  too  much  ;  I  did 
not  deserve  it  1” 

“Not,  Carolan!  what  unworthy  opinion  do  you  hold  of  your¬ 
self  or  me  ?  how  could  you  fear  that  any  woman  would  not  own 
herself  honored  by  the  love  of  him  whose  soul  is  made  more  noble 
by  song  than  by  their  station  are  belted  earls  or  crowned  kings  ? 
whose  heart  is  virtuous  and  pure,  and  whose  name,  even  while 
he  is  yet  green  in  youth,  has  gone  forth  towards  futurity  ?  Least 
of  all,  how  could  you  suppose,  in  EvaM’Donnell,  such  a  woman  ? 
Nay,  by  my  mother’s  sainted  soul,”  she  continued,  in  high  and 
sincere  enthusiasm,  “  I  say  again,  I  am  prouder  of  your  love, 
this  day,  the  first,  as  it  is,  that  has  ever  graced  the  almost  child¬ 
ish  years  of  Eva,  than  if  the  world’s  highest  hero,  or  greatest 
prince,  knelt,  where  you  sit,  an  humble  suitor  at  my  feet.” 

The  poor  harper  could  only  weep  on. 

“And,  Carolan,  you  shall  love  me  still — as  I  love  you — as 
brother  and  sister  love,  when  their  hearts  are  truly  knit  in  nature’s 
purest  affection.  This  you  shall  promise  me  ;  because,  to  lose 
your  esteem,  the  happiness  and  the  honor  of  your  friendship,  by 
what  it  has  here  been  my  duty  to  say,  would,  indeed,  cloud  the 


100 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


days  of  Eva  forever.  Let  me  still  have  the  joy  of  your  harp  ; 
and  when  I  speak,  in  social  discourse,  the  sentiments  of  an  ardent 
heart,  let  me  still  see  your  bright  smile  applaud  me.  For  the 
rest,  the  love  of  some  more  worthy  maiden  shall  be  your  reward  ; 
you  deserve  it  :  forget  this  chance  ;  chance  it  has  been.  When 
you  first  came  to  Glenarriff,  I  was  the  only  maiden  you  often  met, 
and  so  it  happened.  But  forget  it  ;  you  are  very  young,  and  it 
must  soon  fade  away  in  the  brighter  light  that  the  tenderest  love 
of  another  and  a  more  deserving  shall  pour  upon  your  heart.” 

“  I  thank  you,  Eva,”  he  said  at  last,  in  a  calmer  melancholy  ; 
“I  thank  and  bless  you;  but  it  will  never  fade  away;  and  it  was 
not  chance.  More  than  a  year  has  passed  since  first  I  heard 
your  voice  under  your  father’s  roof,  and  it  thrilled  over  the  strings 
of  my  soul  like  lofty  music  struck  by  the  hand  of  some  great 
master.  I  cannot  see  your  face — alas  !  scarce  can  I  even  im¬ 
agine  what  makes  a  face  beautiful.  Early  in  my  childhood  the 
blight  came  on  my  eyes  ;  and  though  I  have  since  often  tried  to 
discern,  with  the  inward  eye  of  memory,  the  faces*  that  bent  over 
my  cradle,  they  are  blank  and  shapeless,  without  a  difference  be¬ 
tween  them  ;  and,  after  all,  I  believe  they  come  to  my  mind,  a 
little  distinct  from  my  cloudy  notion  of  other  objects,  only  by  the 
touch  that  has  since  enabled  me  to  tell  any  one  thing  from  an¬ 
other.” 

“  But  the  face  of  nature  is  not  a  blank  to  your  memory,  Car- 
olan,”  Eva  said,  willing  to  fix  him  in  the  unconscious  digression 
he  had  made. 

“  I  fear  it  is,”  he  answered,  sighing  ;  “  the  great  forms  of  the 
hills  around  my  father’s  house  sometimes,  indeed,  are  in  my  mind  ; 
but  all  smaller  ones,  little  observed  by  infancy,  have  died  away. 
The  trees  that  I  have  heard  you  speak  of,  as  beautiful  in  summer, 
the  rocks,  the  shrubs,  and  the  flowers,  are  imperfect  to  me.  I 
know  not  the  rose  by  its  color.  When  I  have  thought  to  learn 
its  shape  by  my  fingers,  alas  !  Eva,  it  has  stung  me  to  the  quick. 
Even  the  mountains,  whose  form  I  think  I  recollect,  are  not 
green  or  blue,  as  you  describe  other  mountains,  when  seen  at  dif¬ 
ferent  distances,  nor  know  I  the  meaning  of  your  words.  One  only 
appearance  of  nature  dwells  strongly  in  my  mind  ;  it  was  the 
dark  red  light  in  an  evening  sky,  rolled  over  by  clouds  as  black 
as  my  fortunes,  and  reflected  in  the  wide  water.  No,  dearest 
Eva,  he  who  loves  you  better  than  any  other  man  can  ever  love, 
knows  not  the  beauty  of  your  face.  But  when  I  turn  mine  to¬ 
wards  it,  and  am  sure  that  it  is  shining  on  me,  I  think  it  is  an  air. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


10J 


sweet  and  grand  as  ever  harper  played  ;  oh,  it  makes  music  round 
about  me.  And  now,  Eva,  I  will  never  more  speak  to  you  of 
love  ;  you  allow  me  to  be  your  friend  ;  I  thank  you,  and  I  will 
be  your  friend.  I  thank  you  over  and  over,  for  all  your  good¬ 
ness  this  day  ;  you  shall  see  me  smile,  too.  And,  if  you  like,  you 
may  even  believe  that  smile  to  have  been  lighted  up  by  another 
love,  and  that  the  poor  harper  is  happy.” 

“  Then,  take  my  hand,  Carolan  ;  take  it  freely — nay,  turn 
your  lips  to  my  cheek — to  my  lips,  even,  if  you  will.  Brother 
and  sister  may  so  meet  and  part  ;  and  where  honor  lives  in  two 
hearts,  actions  cannot  be  misunderstood.  Be  happy,  dear  Caro- 
Iau  ;  as  happy  as  you  merit,  or  as  my  prayers  can  make  you.” 

He  took  her  hand  ;  he  kissed,  almost  reverently,  her  brow 
and  cheek,  his  tears  wetting  Eva’s  face,  and  calling  from  her  eyes 
a  fuller  shower  than,  since  her  mother’s  death,  they  had  sent  forth. 

A  scream  reached  them  from  another  little  valley,  separated 
from  that  in  which  they  sat  only  by  the  rising  ground  that  was 
a  common  division  to  both.  Eva  knew  that  it  was  Esther’s 
voice,  as  they  had  agreed  she  should  there  await  the  conclusion 
of  the  interview  with  Carolan.  Seizing  his  arm,  she  rapidly  con¬ 
veyed  her  blind  companion,  by  a  level  way,  to  the  spot.  Esther 
was  alone,  but  greatly  agitated. 

“  That  woman  1”  she  exclaimed,  the  moment  her  friends  ap¬ 
peared  ;  “  that  terrible  woman  I” 

“  Whom?”  they  asked  her,  in  a  breath. 

“  I  was  sitting  in  this  lonely  and  noiseless  place,  busied  with 
deep,  and,  perhaps,  sad  thoughts,  and  some  frightful  ones — in 
fact,  dearest  Eva,  I  was  thinking  of  her,  and,  I  know  not  why, 
of  the  matters  you  and  I  talked  over,  in  connection  with  her  ; 
my  head  rested  on  my  hands  ;  my  eyes  buried  in  the  ground  ; 
when,  raising  them,  Onagh  of  the  cavern  sat  immediately  before 
me,  on  that  low,  flat  stone  ;  her  shockingly  pale  face  turned  fully 
to  mine,  and  her  dead  black  eye  watching  me.  How  she  entered 
the  dell,  and  came  so  near  without  startling  me,  I  cannot  im¬ 
agine.  When  our  looks  first  met,  I  did  not  scream ;  nor  for 
some  time  after.  Until,  wrought  upon  by  her  fixed  glare  and 
terrible  silence,  fear  gradually  chilled  my  heart,  and  at  last  I 
cried  out  in  frenzy.  Then,  in  the  act  of  going  away,  she  spoks 
—  ■oh,  Eva,  such  words  1” 

“  Of  what  import  can  they  be,  dearest  Esther,  coming  from 
Each  a  person,  whatever  they  were  ?  yet” — drawing  her  friend 
aside,  and  whispering  her — “  let  me  hear  them  faithfully.” 


102 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“Dearest  Eva,”  replied  Esther,  falling,  in  tears,  on  her  neck, 
and  all  her  presence  of  mind  fled,  “  I  will  faithfully  tell  you — 
‘  You  are  thinking  of  him,’  she  said,  ‘  but,  think  first  of  your 
winding-sheet.’  ” 

“  Tush  !  idle  raving,  all  !”  Eva  cried  disdainfully  ;  “  and  to 
prove  it  is,  Esther,  dear  Esther — sister — he  loves  you  as  fondly 
as  you  love  him,  and  as — as  I  love  your  brother.” 

“  And  that,”  added  Esther,  as  the  maidens  embraced  each 
other — “  that  is  only  as  well  as  my  brother  loves  you.” 

As  fate  would  have  it,  this  happened  to  be  a  day  of  general 
explanations.  Whilst,  in  the  first  shade  of  twilight,  the  young 
sisters  thus  confessed  to  each  other  the  mighty  secret,  that,  how¬ 
ever,  was  no  secret  at  all  to  either,  though  each  thought 
it  was,  their  young  brothers  stood  in  the  same  shadow  of 
nightfall,  surrounded  by  the  noble  solitude  of  what  is  called 
the  great  Deer  Park  of  Antrim  Castle,  a  stag  lying  dead  at  their 
feet,  and  their  large,  round-headed,  long-eared,  black-muzzled 
Irish  stag-hounds  crouching,  tired  and  contented,  around.  They 
had  outridden,  a  considerable  distance,  the  rest  of  the  huntsmen, 
at  whose  head  was  the  old  earl  of  Antrim,  and  were  the  only 
two  of  a  numerous  party  at  the  death.  Their  horses,  blown  and 
jaded,  stood,  with  drooping  heads,  near  them  ;  for  they  had  just 
alighted  to  dispatch  with  their  hunting-knives  the  baffled  chase. 

“  It  is  but  a  poor  triumph,  after  all,  Evelyn,”  said  Edmund, 
after  they  had  for  some  time,  and  in  silence,  regarded  the  dead 
stag.  “  While  the  game  is  up,  and  the  horns  and  cheering  echoed 
by  the  hills,  I  like  a  hunting  well  ;  nay,  there  is  hot  pleasure  in 
bounding  from  the  saddle  to  give,  at  the  risk  of  one’s  own  life  or 
limb,  the  noble  animal  his  death-wound.  But  to  see  him  lie 
there,  butchered  at  our  hands,  while  we  stand  holding  these 
bloody  knives — this  is  not  pleasant.  I  wish  the  other  hunters 
would  come  up.” 

“  I  wish  they  would,”  said  Evelyn,  “  and  I  agree  it  is  a  sorry 
prowess.  Y"et  better  that  the  peace  of  the  land  allows  us  such 
a  pastime,  than  that  we  should  be  called  by  the  voice  of  civil 
discord  to  another  butchering.  Had  we  met  only  some  years 
sooner,  M’Donnell,  perhaps  our  different  prejudices,  made  active 
by  the  spirit  of  the  times,  would  not  have  allowed  us  to  unsheath 
a  blade  in  the  same  hunting.” 

u  Alas !  perhaps  not,  Evelyn  ;  yet  I  own  no  prejudices  in  my 
heart,  that  could,  or  ever  can,  make  me  indifferent  to  the  happi« 
ness  of  your  friendship.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


103 


“Nor  I,  M’Donnell,  that  could  ever  make  me  regret  yours.” 
They  clasped  hands. 

“  It  is  in  such  pauses  of  civil  frenzy  that  men  get  calmness 
and  reason  to  enable  them  almost  to  laugh  at  the  imaginary 
distinctions  which  they  would  before  have  given  or  taken  a  life 
to  uphold,  and  which,  I  fear,  are  only  preached  up  into  unreal 
existence  by  the  knave  in  politics,  and  the  griping  or  bigoted  in 
the  ministry  of  different  religions.  What,  to  you  or  me,  is  the 
creed  of  the  other  ?” 

“  Nothing  for  a  quarrel,  Evelyn,”  said  Edmund,  smiling. 

“  Then,  let  them  rave  as  they  will  ;  there  can  be  faith  iu 
friendship  between  idolaters  and  heretics,  Edmund.” 

“  And  why  not  in  love,  too,  Evelyn  ?” 

“  Indeed,  I  see  no  reason,”  his  friend  answered,  a  little  out  of 
countenance. 

“  So,  you  dare  love  a  Papist  maiden  ?” 

“  I  dare — Edmund,  I  do.” 

“  I  know  you  do,  Evelyn.  Come,  it  is  well  that  this  has 
chanced  as  it  has  ;  and  let  it  be  dispatched  as  quickly  as  it 
springs  up  :  nay,  quickly  it  must  be  ;  for,  hark  to  the  call  of  the 
earl’s  bugle  from  the  next  valley  ;  first,  let  me  answer  it  ;”  he 
put  his  own  bugle  to  his  lips,  and  blew  an  answering  note. 
“  And  now,  Evelyn,  you  love  Eva  M’Donnell  ?” 

“  I  do — well  and  dearly.” 

“  There  can  be  no  question  honorably  ?” 

“  None — while  I  live  to  answer  it.” 

“  I  never  doubted  :  you  honor  us  much,  Evelyn,  humbled  as 
we  are,  and  almost  as  portionless  as  Eva  is — you  know  she  is  ?” 

“Perhaps  I  knew  ;  but  I  cared  not.” 

“  And  in  a  word,  you  would  wed  her,  Papists  as  we  are,  and 
knowing  this  ?”  His  friend  emphatically  and  warmly  assented. 

“  My  permission,  then,  to  address  her,  and  my  service  with 
her  father  and  herself  to  join  their  permission  also,  you  shall 
have,  on  a  condition.” 

Evelyn  stood  more  erect  ;  he  had  never  observed  Edmund’s 
love  for  Esther,  as  it  was  better  disguised  than  his  own  for 
Eva,  and  the  condition  he  expected  to  hear  named  was- -having 
heard  much  of  the  efforts  of  Roman  Catholics  to  make  pros* 
elytes — thus  conveyed  in  his  answer  : 

“  You  know  I  am  a  Protestant,  on  conviction,  Edmund.” 

“  Yes,  and  mean  nothing  to  change  it.” 

“  And  what,  then  ?  what  condition  ?” 


104 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  You  have  a  sister,  too,  Evelyn.” 

“  Hold  you  there,  now  !  is  that  it  ?” 

“  That  is  it,”  said  Edmund,  his  rallying  tone  failing  him,  as  he 
blushed  deeply. 

“  Take  your  condition  then — a  bargain  ?”  Once  more  he 
thrust  out  his  hand. 

“  A  bargain,7’  M’Donnell  answered  ;  and  palm  met  palm  with 
so  loud  a  smack,  that  the  slumbering  stag-hounds  opened  their 
eyes,  and  pricked  up  their  heavy  ears  at  it. 

The  earl  brought  up  his  huntsmen  ;  the  stag  was  quartered , 
and  all  turned  their  horses’  heads  from  the  hunting-valley,  the 
old  nobleman  reminding  the  two  friends  that  they  were  to  share 
his  board  on  that  evening.  In  a  breath,  they  protested,  how 
ever,  that  it  was  now  impossible  for  them  to  have  the  honor  ; 
that  something  had  just  occurred  to  require  their  speedy  depart¬ 
ure  from  Glenarm  ;  something  of  deep  moment.  In  fact,  they 
urged,  with  no  appearance  of  consistency,  such  fiery  speed,  that 
the  earl  observed,  as  they  spurred  from  him — 

“  There  go  two  gallants  who  may  be  found  in  the  next  conve¬ 
nient  glen,  with  skeins  at  each  other’s  throats  ;  a  brawl  about 
field-craft,  I  reckon.” 

But  the  friends  turned  into  no  glen  on  the  road,  till  they  had 
reached  Esther’s  cottage,  just  as  a  young  moon  rose  above  th. 
waning  twilight.  They  entered  the  cottage  so  flushed  and  agi 
tated,  that  their  sisters  held  for  a  moment  something  of  the  sam* 
opinion  as  that  believed  by  the  old  nobleman  ;  but  when  the) 
sat  down  to  supper  laughing  and  rallying  each  other,  and  when  th( 
maidens  saw  the  confident  sparkling  of  their  eyes,  as  they  exchangee 
glances,  or  ventured  to  bestow  them  elsewhere,  Eva,  at  least 
began  to  guess  the  true  reason  for  such  excitement.  And  with 
the  suspicion,  Eva  looked  as  chill  and  as  haughty  as  could,  in 
her  teens,  the  little  goddess  to  whom  we  have  once  compared  her. 

This  corrected  the  exuberance  of  the  young  men’s  spirits  ;  to 
divert  particular  thoughts  and  appearances,  Carolan  was,  over 
and  over,  called  on  for  the  music  of  his  harp.  He  complied 
readily,  but  with  unusual  silence,  if  not  reserve  of  manner. 
Poor  Carolan!  he  knew,  though  he  wanted  eyes,  the  meaning  oi 
the  scene  around  him.  Strains  of  young  and  hopeful  love,  Eve¬ 
lyn  and  Edmund  asked  for,  unconscious  of  the  agony  at  the 
minstrel’s  heart,  But,  as  has  been  since  better  said,  by  him 
whose  poetry  is  a  happy,  though  a  late  echo  of  notes  Carolan 
this  evening  dwelt  on — 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


105 


u  Ah,  little  they  think  who  delight  in  his  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking  1” 

A  seashore  walk  in  the  moonlight  was  proposed,  upon  an  even¬ 
ing  so  mild  and  beautiful,  and  Carolan  asked  to  join  it,  with  the 
strong  hope,  truth  compels  us  to  own,  that  he  would  refuse  ;  but 
the  happy  youths  need  not  have  done  their  warm  esteem  for  Caro¬ 
lan  such  a  violence,  as,  for  the  first  time,  to  fear  his  consent  to 
be  of  their  party.  He  did  refuse  ;  and  the  two  sisters  and  the 
two  brothers  rose  to  take  the  walk  that,  ere  its  close,  was  to 
shape  their  fates  forever. 

As  they  went  out  at  the  door,  Carolan  could  understand  that, 
with  more  than  usual  pertinacity,  each  sister  clung  to  the  arm  of 
her  own  brother.  He  remained  alone  in  his  blindness  and  his  sor¬ 
row.  His  little  harp  hung  neglected  at  his  arm,  and  for  some 
time  he  sat  motionless,  and,  outwardly,  not  agitated.  But  it 
was  the  boiling  up  within  him  of  stronger  and  worse  feelings 
than  he  had  ever  yet  experienced,  that  kept  the  young  harper 
outwardly  quiet.  He  saw,  in  his  mind,  Eva  relinquishing,  after 
the  party  had  left  the  house,  the  arm  of  her  brother,  and  taking 
that  of  Evelyn.  They  spoke  but  briefly  together  :  her  acknow- 
ledgme  nt  of  love  made  to  Carolan  himself,  and  the  spirited  can¬ 
dor  of  her  disposition,  left  Eva  no  room  to  hesitate  ;  she  sur¬ 
rendered  her  hand  to  Evelyn,  his  arm  stole,  unforbidden,  round 
her  waist — her  neck — she  yielded  to  her  chosen  lover  the  first 
kiss  of  assured  love.  Carolan  started  to  his  feet  ;  he  hated — 
loathed  his  happy  rival. 

But  a  better  nature  soon  asserted  itself.  He  sat  down  again 
— he  touched  his  harp — he  wept.  Playing  softly  to  himself,  he 
was  found  by  his  friends,  on  their  return  from  their  walk,  each 
with,  not  the  same  lady  on  his  arm  as  when  they  had  left  the 
cottage.  Of  this  change  he  also  became  conscious  the  moment 
they  crossed  the  threshold  ;  and  he  arose  to  meet  them,  for  the 
first  time,  without  a  smile. 

“  Now,”  he  said,  “  ye  are  as  happy  as  any  of  God’s  creatures, 
this  night,  and  my  peace  and  my  blessing  be  with  you” — turning 
to  the  door.  All  asked  in  surprise  or  sorrow  whither  he  was 
going. 

“  To  be  happy,  too,”  he  answered,  “  thinking  of  the  joy  of 
this  house.  Give  me  one  cup  of  wine.”  He  held  it  in  his 
hand  on  the  threshold.  “As  there  is  a  Judge  to  judge  me,  I 
drink  this  toast  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  May  the  joy  of 

5* 


106 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


love  returned,  which  you  all  know,  never  meet  a  blight  in  this 
world !”  He  drained  the  cup.  “And  now  farewell,  and  my 
blessing  again — I  know  the  road  to  the  village.” 

“  Carolan  !  dear  Carolan  1”  cried  Eva,  catching  his  arm. 

“  No,  Eva,”  he  said  ;  “  I  will  return  ;  we  shall  meet  again  ; 
out  I  cannot  stay  here  to-night.  I  have  done  enough,  and  it 
was  not  easily  done,  to  say  what  I  have  said,  from  the  bottom 
of  heart.  God  bless  you,  and  him  you  love  !” 

She  resumed  her  entreaties  for  him  to  stay,  and  was  joined  by 
Esther  and  the  young  men.  But  Carolan  would  not  be  pre¬ 
vailed  on  j  they  saw  him  turn  off  from  the  door  ;  they  stood  at 
the  door,  and  watched  him  moving  alone  in  the  moonlight,  along 
the  narrow  road.  He  disappeared,  and  all  sat  down,  more  so¬ 
berly  than  accorded  with  the  new  and  happy  situation  of  their 
hearts. 


CHAPTER,  VIII. 

But  the  sincerest  grief  for  others  is  gradually,  if  not  very 
soon,  forgotten  in  the  selfishness  of  personal  joy.  The  young 
lovers  quickly  lost  sight  of  every  thing  and  person  on  the  earth, 
except  themselves  ;  and  many  delicious  months  elapsed  in  the 
uncloying  enjoyment  of  walking  together  over  the  same  scenes, 
sitting  together  in  the  same  places,  and  repeating  and  hearing, 
over  and  over,  the  same  vows,  protestations,  and  flattery.  By 
mere  chance  they  bestowed  a  little  occasional  thought  on  the 
peculiarity  of  their  relative  worldly  situations,  and  the  plan 
according  to  which  they  were  ultimately  to — get  married.  And 
thus  was  the  matter  arranged. 

In  the  first  place,  neither  Uncle  Paul  nor  his  lady  was  to  be 
made  acquainted  with  their  loves  and  engagements,  until  Evelyn 
should  gain  his  twenty-first  year.  Then  his  own  master,  and  also, 
according  to  his  father’s  will,  the  guardian  of  Esther,  a  commu¬ 
nication  might  be  vouchsafed,  and,  merely  as  matter  of  form,  a 
consent  asked,  with  slight  anxiety  as  to  whether  the  little  gentle¬ 
man  should  applaud  or  disapprove.  It  seemed  worth  while  to 
secure,  however,  the  approbation  of  their  nearest  relative  ;  and 
in  this  view,  Evelvn  planned  to  invent  some  means  of  breaking 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


107 


the  business  to  Paul,  when  he  should  be  separated  from  imme- 
diate  collision  with  his  good  lady,  and  least  in  dread  of  her  re¬ 
buke.  Under  such  circumstances,  Evelyn  did  not  doubt  being 
able  to  obtain,  merely  by  a  little  plausibility,  and  the  presenting 
his  uncle  with  a  new  idea,  a  prompt  assent  to  every  thing  he 
asked.  Such  permission  reduced  to  writing,  as  the  nephew  re¬ 
solved  should  happen,  any  subsequent  recantations  of  the  party, 
made  under  the  influence  of  threat  and  terror,  would  go  for 
nothing.  Or  even  should  he  fail  altogether  in  this  quarter, 
Evelyn  was  sure  of  success  in  another.  Should  Uncle  Paul  re- 
fuse,  there  was  as  good  a  consent  to  be  had  from  Uncle  Jerry. 
So,  the  full  countenance  of  old  M/Donnell  being  already  obtained, 
the  lovers  loved  on,  with  scarce  a  shade  of  doubt  to  dim  the 
noontide  brightness  of  their  young  hopes  and  prospects. 

Having  brought  them  to  this  happy  state,  we  own,  as  nearly 
three  years  are  yet  to  elapse  before  Evelyn  comes  of  age,  that 
we  must  omit  a  good  deal  of  their  raptures.  But  it  is  gratifying 
not  to  be  obliged  altogether  to  lose  sight  for  so  long  a  period  of 
persons  in  whom,  apart  from  their  tiresome  love-making,  we  feel 
really  interested.  With  considerable  pleasure,  we  therefore  an¬ 
nounce,  whatever  may  have  been  the  feelings  of  the  parties  con¬ 
cerned,  that,  in  about  a  year,  or  perhaps  more,  after  the  coming  of 
Evelyn  and  his  sister  to  Grienarriff,  he  received  such  an  account 
of  the  state  of  certain  properties  in  the  West  Indies,  as  forced 
him,  in  some  alarm,  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  world,  its  base  dross, 
and  ungenerous  concerns,  and  finally  to  decide  on  a  voyage  across 
the  Atlantic. 

Here,  again,  is  a  pleasing  situation  for  a  renewal  of  lovers’ 
vows,  with,  for  the  first  time,  the  relief  of  their  tears,  regrets, 
and  lamentations.  But  all  this  we  again  pass  by,  or  leave  to  be 
supplied  by  imaginations  more  tender  than  our  own.  Supposing 
Evelyn,  therefore,  clear  of  such  scenes,  we  hurry  him,  with  Ed¬ 
mund  as  his  companion,  to  the  point  of  embarkation,  over  the 
long  and  bad  road,  then  lying  between  Cushindoll  and  Belfast, 
between  Belfast  and  Dublin.  And,  on  the  evening  of  a  day 
early  in  the  year  1687,  we  find  the  two  friends  entering  Dabliu 
on  horseback. 

Not  Dublin  of  the  present  day,  spreading,  almost  equally, 
north  and  south  of  the  Anna  Liffey  (Auin  Louffa,  “  the  swift 
river”),  with  her  spacious  squares,  broad  streets,  her  clusters  ol 
public  buildings,  her  seven  beautiful  bridges,  and  her  unrivalled 
quays  ;  but  Dublin  of  1687,  a  scattering  of  ill-built  houses. 


108 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


lying  nearly  on  the  south  side  of  the  river  only  ;  with  no  build¬ 
ings  of  import  except  its  two  old  cathedrals,  its  churches,  and  its 
castle,  the  seat  of  the  viceroy  ;  with  but  two  ugly  bridges  of 
stone,  since  pulled  down  ;  with  no  squares,  no  Stephen’s-green, 
no  Sackville-street.  One  of  the  finest  piles  that  now  adorn  the 
city,  was  then  “  Trinity  College,  near  Dublin.”  Finally,  Dublin 
with  scarce  ten  thousand  inhabitants  ;  for,  a  census  having  been 
taken  not  twenty  years  before,  the  population  amounted  to  little 
more  than  eight  thousand. 

The  travellers,  approaching  from  the  northern  road,  entered 
the  city  through  Church-street  and  Bridge-street,  leaving  to 
their  right  a  half-peopled  district,  boasting,  however,  one  church, 
St.  Michael’s.  They  crossed  the  river  at  Old  Bridge  ;  and  then, 
by  Bridge  Gate,  got  into  the  outskirts  of  the  only  important 
part  of  Dublin.  Continuing  along  High-street,  they  passed,  at 
the  right-hand  corner  of  Skinner’s-row  a  handsome,  modern-look¬ 
ing  structure,  built,  indeed,  only  four  years  before — that  is,  in 
1683 — by  the  corporation  of  the  city,  and  called  the  Tholsel. 
Here  the  worthy  men  held  their  “  courts.”  Though  every  trace 
of  the  building  has  passed  away,  yet  the  proceedings  of  the  loyal¬ 
ists  of  Skinner’s-row,  do — and  of  their  collateral  descendants, 
the  aldermen  of  Skinner’s-alley — find  some  record  in  the  minds  of 
even  the  present  generation. 

While  approaching  the  castle,  the  friends  met  a  crowd  of  men 
issuing  from  one  of  its  gates,  who,  as  they  walked  together  in 
some  military  order,  and  wore  military  uniform,  seemed,  although 
now  unarmed,  to  have  recently  been  soldiers  ;  and  this  presump¬ 
tion  was  assisted  by  seeing  at  their  head,  or  mixed  up  with  them, 
many  gentlemen  in  the  full  attire  of  officers  of  different  rank,  ex¬ 
cept  that,  like  the  crowd,  they  had  no  arms.  While  these  passed 
our  travellers,  they  showed,  in  the  expression  of  their  faces,  much 
discontent,  astonishment,  or  dejection  ;  or  else  bitterer  and  more 
angry  feelings,  as  they  turned  to  scowl  at  a  mob  of  brats  and 
women  who  walked  by  their  sides,  and  saluted  them  with  groans, 
hissings,  and  revilings. 

Evelyn  and  M? Donnell  regarded  this  scene  in  complete  igno¬ 
rance  of  what  it  meant,  until  a  gentleman,  one  of  a  few  in  civil 
costume,  who  accompanied,  as  if  in  condolence,  those  who  seemed 
officers,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Evelyn,  saluted  him,  and  received  his 
salute,  and  hastily  shaking  hands  with  his  companion,  advanced 
to  welcome  him  to  Dublin.  Evelyn  introduced  this  individual  tc 
Edmund  as  Mr.  Robert  Fitzgerald,  the  old  friend  of  his  father. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


109 


and  the  person  on  whose  account  he  had  come  out  of  his  way  to 
embark  at  Dublin  for  England.  Evelyn  inquired  the  meaning  of 
the  scene  of  which  they  were  spectators,  and  his  new  companion 
answered,  in  an  emphatic  whisper,  and  while  he  trembled  with 
agitation  : 

“  You  see  some  of  the  flower  of  our  loyal  Protestant  army, 
and  our  only  protectors,  disbanded — stripped — plundered,  by  the 
bigoted  Papist,  Talbot,  and  thrust  out  unprovided  for,  and 
almost  naked,  to  make  room  for  an  army  of  his  own  choosing.” 

Both  the  young  men  expressed  their  unfeigned  astonishment  at 
this  explanation.  Living  in  a  remote  and  isolated  district,  as, 
for  the  last  year,  they  had  done,  enjoying  the  idle  dreams  of  love 
alone,  and  voluntarily  shutting  out  even  the  echoes  of  the  great 
world,  they  were  completely  ignorant  of  the  political  aspect  of 
things,  and  of  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  in  the  mean  time. 
They  only  recollected  that,  ere  the  commencement  of  their  dreamy 
existence,  a  new  king  had  ascended  in  peace  the  throne  of  Great 
Britain,  and  in  welcome,  too,  from  all  classes  and  sects  of  his 
people.  Continuing  at  peace  themselves,  they  took  it  for  grant¬ 
ed  that  so  did  the  world  also  ;  that  nothing  could  occur  to  dash 
the  national  quiet,  at  first  so  apparently  certain,  and,  by  the  way, 
so  sympathetic  with  the  union  of  hearts  and  hands  they  expe¬ 
rienced  and  proposed  to  further  amplify.  But  here  was  a  stern 
reality  to  shake  them  from  their  dream  ;  here  was  a  scene  suffi¬ 
cient  to  kindle  anew  the  most  violent  flames  of  national  discord  : 
nay,  here  was  a  gentleman  describing  it  with  an  energy  and  agi¬ 
tation  characteristic  of  party-spirit  already  roused  to  its  full  sen¬ 
sitiveness,  on  the  one  side,  while  the  feelings  evinced  by  the  mob 
indicated  an  equal  vivacity  of  the  other  side. 

“  Hark  to  the  hootings  of  the  Papist  rabble  !”  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
continued  ;  “  hark  to  their  cur-like  triumph  over  the  disarming  and 
downfall  of  the  only  men  able  and  willing  to  preserve  us  from 
their  venom  and  barbarity — from  plundering,  murdering,  and  ex¬ 
termination — from  another  Forty-one  !” 

“  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?”  Edmund  asked,  his  face 
reddening  ;  and,  “  When  did  these  changes  begin  to  occur  T} 
asked  Evelyn. 

“Not  so  very  lately:  nor — since  you  are  so  astonished  at 
what  you  here  see — is  this  all,”  answered  Mr.  Fitzgerald.  “  BiP 
I  perceive,  buried  in  the  country  as  you  have  been,  you  require 
proper  information  on  the  true  state  of  things — so,  come  with  me 
to  my  house,  young  gentlemen — a  party  of  sorrowful  friends  take 


110 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


supper  with  me  this  evening  ;  come — dismount  and  let  us  walk 
together.”  Accordingly,  the  travellers  accompanied  to  his  resi* 
dence  the  not  uncelebrated  man,  who  afterwards  secured  to  Wil¬ 
liam  III.  his  good  city  of  Dublin,  the  ancestor  of  Ireland’s  only 
duke — Leinster. 

A  sorrowful  party,  indeed,  and,  withal,  an  indignant  one,  sur¬ 
rounded  our  young  friends  at  supper.  Silence  prevailed,  almost 
entirely,  during  the  meal ;  but  when  the  host  had  given,  “  The 
king,  and  better  councils  to  his  majesty !” — and  when  the  ser¬ 
vants  in  attendance  had  received  orders  to  go  away,  they  being 
almost  all  Roman  Catholics,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  addressing  himself  to 
Evelyn,  resumed  the  conversation  he  had  broken  off  in  the  street. 

“More,  much  more  than  what  you  have  seen,  remains  to  be 
told,  my  good  young  friend — ” 

“  But  first,  if  you  please,”  interrupted  Evelyn,  “  why  are  the 
soldiers  disbanded  ?” 

“  On  a  pretence  that  the  rebellion  of  Monmouth,  just  put 
down  in  England,  has  spread  to  the  old  militia  in  this  kingdom, 
we  have  received  from  the  king  and  the  English  council  an  order 
to  collect  in,  through  the  whole  country,  their  arms,  and  deposit 
them  in  the  several  stores  of  each  county.  I  was,  myself,  one  of 
the  first  victims  to  this  order  ;  but  our  Popish  general-in-chief, 
Talbot,  now,  forsooth,  earl  of  Tyrconnel,  lately  applyiug  it  accord¬ 
ing  to  his  own  construction,  has  proceeded  to  cashier  all  officers 
who  have  been  of  the  Parliament  army,  or  of  Oliver’s  army,  or 
the  sons  of  such  ;  Captain  Coote,  Sir  Oliver  St.  George,  and 
my  Lord  Shannon,  here,  for  instance.” 

“  Before  the  Lord,  sir,”  said  the  notorious  Coote,  “  more  than 
two  hundred  of  our  most  godly  have  been  stripped  of  their  com¬ 
missions,  and  more  than  five  thousand  old  soldiers  of  the  Parlia¬ 
ment  beggared.” 

“  The  men  to  be  deprived  of  their  clothing,  and  no  equivalent 
offered  for  the  commissions  we  had  purchased,”  said  the  needy 
Irish  nobleman. 

“  While,  said  Sir  Oliver,  “  the  refined  cruelties  practised  in 
cold  blood,  on  the  unfortunate  adherents'  of  the  gallant  and  royal 
Monmouth,  by  ’the  infamous  Kirke,  in  the  field,  and  by  the  as 
infamous  Jeffries  on  the  bench,  seem  to  give  us  a  specimen  of 
what  defenceless  men  are  to  expect  from  the  tryannical  spirit  of 
the  times.” 

“Then  a  new  levy  of  Papists  is  proposed,  I  warrant  you," 
resumed  Fitzgerald. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Ill 


“  The  most  extraordinary  and  dangerous  act  of  power  we  have 
yet  seen,”  said  the  Rev.  William  King,  president  of  the  chapter 
of  St.  Patrick’s,  “is  the  arbitrary  dispensing  with  the  test  oaths, 
by  taking  of  which  alone  the  law  had  contemplated  the  admissi- 
bility  of  any  man  into  any  situation  of  trust.  No  greater  safe¬ 
guard  had  we  for  our  lives  and  liberties,  as  I  have  shown,  at 
som?  length,  in  my  reply,  ‘to  the  considerations’  that  have  in¬ 
duced  that  arch-apostate,  Peter  Manby,  late  dean  of  Derry,  to 
conform  to  the  abominations  of  the  Popish  creed.” 

“No  greater  safeguard,  indeed,”  remarked  Sir  Richard  Rey- 
nel,  ex-justice  of  the  King’s  Bench  ;  “  since,  in  consequence  of 
its  being  so  illegally  dispensed  with,  Alexander  Fitten  now  sits 
lord-chancellor,  in  the  room  of  a  worthy  man,  and  he  an  apos¬ 
tate,  and  convicted  of  forgery  at  Chester  assizes,  and  in  West¬ 
minster  Hall,  and  afterwards  fined  as  such  by  the  English  House 
of  Lords.  While  creatures  no  better  than  himself  rule  the 
courts  of  law  under  him  ;  such  as  Sir  Bryan  O’Neale,  in  the 
King’s  Bench,  a  man  crippled  in  mind  and  body,  but  of  venom 
and  zeal  ;  and  elsewhere  that  able  knave,  Stephen  Rice,  one  who 
deports  himself  as  if  he  feared  no  after-reckoning,  and  who 
has  sworn  to  drive  a  coach  and  six  through  the  acts  of  settle¬ 
ment.” 

“  But  what,”  asked  a  stout  gentleman,  “  can  equal  in  abuse 
and  vexation  the  dissolving  of  the  charter  of  the  corporation  of 
this  city,  first  vainly  attempted  last  year,  and  manfully  resisted 
by  myself,  John  Knox,  then  Lord  Mayor,  but  now  fully  effect¬ 
ed,  whereby  professed  Papists  are  admitted  to  civic  places  and 
honors,  power,  and  emolument  ?” 

“  Nothing  can  equal  it,”  answered  a  slim  gentleman,  who  had 
once  been  sheriff-elect — called,  indeed,  but  never  chosen — “  except 
it  may  be  the  measures  that  are  on  foot  to  return  Popish  sheriffs 
for  every  county  in  Ireland.” 

“  What  is  to  be  done  ?”  said  more  than  one  of  the  company, 
speaking  together. 

“  What,  indeed,”  echoed  the  reverend  president  of  chapter, 
“  when  Protestants  are  thus  jostled  in  all  their  immunities  in 
Church  and  State  ?” 

“  If  it  is  sought,”  said  Edmund,  “  to  displace  all  Protestants 
and  Protestant  influence,  in  order  to  substitute  Catholics  and 
Catholic  influence,  exclusively,  let  Protestants  resist  to  ihe  last 
drop  of  blood  in  their  veins  ;  but  if,  after  a  season  of  Protestant 
monopoly,  it  is  only  sought  to  allow  Catholics,  in  common  with 


112 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


other  fellow-subjects,  the  opportunities  according  to  which  they 
may  grow,  with  equal  merit  or  industry,  equally  distinguished  or 
independent,  then  let  Protestants  pause  before  they  risk,  by  a 
resistance,  which,  after  all,  can  spring  only  from  a  reaching  after 
continued  monopoly,  the  peace,  happiness,  and  blood  of  this 
miserable  country.” 

“  Ay,  but,  M’Donnell,”  said  Evelyn,  as  all  present  stared  at  his 
friend,  “the  violent  manner  of  these  proceedings  would  seem  to 
make  unnecessary  the  last  case  you  have  put.” 

“  I  take  as  granted,”  resumed  Edmund,  “  that  I  have,  for  the 
first  time,  indeed,  heard  truly  related  the  manner  and  spirit  of 
this  Tyrconnell’s  measures  ;  and  I  admit  that,  upon  such  a  show¬ 
ing,  Irish  Protestants  have  cause  to  fear  worse  than  equality 
with  their  Roman  Catholic  fellow-subjects.  But  even  so,  I  main¬ 
tain  that  his  measures  and  their  spirit  are  encroachments,  as  well 
upon  the  instructions  he  has  received,  as  upon  the  real  and  sincere 
views  of  Roman  Catholics,  in  general.  I  say,  Evelyn,  that 
neither  the  king,  his  master,  nor  yet  the  Roman  Catholics  of 
this  or  the  other  country,  wish  to  disturb  the  established  religion 
of  the  State,  the  established  right  of  property,  or  the  eligibility 
to  civil  aud  political  power  of  auy  sect  or  party.” 

“  The  youth  speaks,  I  think,  reasonably,”  said  another  reverend 
person,  one  of  the  same  sentiments  with  those  who,  some  years 
after,  were,  in  consequence  of  their  scrupulous  ideas  of  heredita¬ 
ry  right,  called  in  England  non-jurors.  “  The  professions  of  the 
new  king  are  to  grant  liberty  of  conscience  to  his  people  of  every 
sect  ;  witness  the  truth  of  his  intentions  in  his  indulgence  to  dis¬ 
senters.  And  I  do  agree  that  we  should  pause  to  distinguish 
between  being  deprived  of  the  opportunity  to  monopolize,  and 
the  freedom  to  participate — between  changing  places,  and  only 
sharing  places — with  the  hitherto  excluded  sect.  As  to  the 
oigoted  fury  of  Tyrconnel,  I  again  agree  with  the  young  speak¬ 
er,  that  no  instructions,  known  to  us,  which  he  has  received,  war¬ 
rant  him  in  indulging  it  ;  and  here” — laying  his  hand  on  a  public 
document — “  here  is  a  declaration  of  the  Popish  lords,  Arundel, 
Powis,  and  Bellasis,  lately  admitted  into  the  royal  privy  council, 
saying  of  him,  ‘  that  fellow  in  Ireland  is  fool  and  madman  enough 
to  ruin  ten  kingdoms.’  ” 

“  Dr.  Oates  charged  him  with  the  plot,”  observed  the  Rev 
William  King  ;  “  and,  if  the  worthy  doctor  was  a  bad  evidence, 
he  was  no  false  prophet,  as  the  saying  is.” 

“  But  to  the  point,  reverend  brother,”  urged  the  last  speaker  j 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


113 


u  if,  after  a  rebellious  attack  on  his  crown  by  his  bastard  nephew, 
and  the  old  disturbers  of  royalty,  King  James  has  natural  fears 
of  the  fealty  of  such,  in  this  kingdom,  as  fought  against  his 
father,  Charles  I.,  why  should  we  much  wonder  at  the  late  mil¬ 
itary  reductions  ?  If  the  test  oath  be  dispensed  with,  and,  by 
that  means,  Papists  rendered  eligible  to  commissions  in  the  army, 
to  places  on  the  bench,  in  the  civic  chair,  or  in  the  sheriff’s  box, 
are  Protestants  excluded  at  the  same  time  ?  There  are  yet 
officers,  soldiers,  judges,  and  aldermen  of  the  Established 
Church,  and  there  may  be.  Therefore,  I  say  again,  let  us  con¬ 
sider  ere  we  think  of  openly  resisting  this  first  act  of  sovereign 
power,  which  seems  so  much  to  fright  us  all,  lest  men  should  say 
we  opposed  our  king,  not  because  we  were  to  be  deprived  of  our 
freedom  or  our  rights,  but  because  we  were  called  on  to  divide 
them.” 

“  Or,”  rejoined  Edmund,  “  lest  such  opposition,  working  upon 
the  natural  passions  of  a  king,  who  is  no  more  than  man  after 
all,  should  provoke  him  from  the  reasonable  assertion  of  justice 
into  the  rash  and  angry  enforcement  of  it  ;  and  so,  indeed,  give 
ultimate  cause  for  struggle,  rancor,  and  bloodshed.” 

“  The  attempt  to  dispense  with  the  tests  is  arbitrary,  not 
reasonable,”  resumed  the  Rev.  William  King  ;  “  parliament 
alone  could  have  cancelled  the  law.” 

“  Your  pardon,  brother  ;  the  example  of  a  number  of  kings  of 
England,  as  far  back  as  Henry  III.,  the  admissions  of  many 
English  parliaments,  and  the  opinions  of  the  many  good  lawyers, 
are  there  at  issue  with  you.  So  late  as  James  I.,  after  a  new 
consultation  of  judges,  it  became  an  established  principle  in 
English  jurisprudence,  that  the  king  could  permit  what  was  for¬ 
bidden  by  statue  law.  The  very  House  of  Commons  who  com¬ 
pelled  from  James’s  father  the  petition  of  right,  acknowledged 
that  principle  in  its  fullest  extent  ;  none  but  the  regicide  parlia¬ 
ment  denied  it.  And  after  they  and  their  monstrous  acts  have 
been  denounced  and  swept  away  by  the  rallied  voice  of  the 
nation,  we  are  not  surely  going  to  vindicate  ourselves  by  either. 
Sir  Edward  Coke,  the  light  of  our  Protestant  lawyers,  has  con¬ 
firmed  the  privilege  of  the  sovereign,  adding,  that  even  an  act  of 
parliament  cannot  take  it  away.  The  majority  of  James’s  own 
Protestant  counsellors  echo  all  these  opinions  ;  and  so,  thus  the 
question  stands.  Call  the  privilege,  if  you  will,  unsuited  to  the 
genius  of  the  constitution.  We  have  unanimously  given  James 
a  crown,  to  which  we  knew  it  was  immemorially  appended  ;  we 


114 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


nave  not,  beforehand,  bargained  with  him  not  to  use  it.  We 
have,  in  fact,  conferred  it  on  him,  along  with  his  crown  ;  his 
right  to  it  has,  by  ourselves,  been  fully  though  tacitly  acknow¬ 
ledged.  And  is  it  now  fair,  in  the  nature  of  common  justice,  to 
blame  him  for  accepting  and  exercising  what  our  own  hands 
have  put  into  his  ?  Or  is  it  only  when  its  exercise  happens 
to  interfere  with  our  monopoly,  that  we  are  to  deprive  of  his 
ancient  right  our  lawful  sovereign  ?” 

“  Universal  Papistry  is  the  real  object  in  all  these  wanton 
measures,”  replied  the  other  divine  ;  “  the  queen,  a  violent 
Papist,  rules  the  king  ;  Father  Petre,  the  Jesuit,  rules  her 
majesty.  And  hath  he  not  also  been  called  to  the  privy  coun¬ 
cil  ?  I  say,  something  must  be  done,”  the  reverend  gentleman 
added,  rising  to  go  away. 

“  And  so  say  I,”  echoed  Coote,  smiling  grimly,  and  tapping 
the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

The  company  rose  with  him  ;  and  Evelyn  and  Edmund  were 
left  alone  with  their  host  to  arrange  the  matters  which,  ere 
Evelyn’s  voyage  over  the  Atlantic,  had  brought  him  to  Dublin. 
This  effected,  the  young  men  retired  for  the  night,  neither  ex¬ 
changing  a  word  upon  the  late  topic  of  general  discourse.  They 
met  at  breakfast  in  the  morning,  they  walked  to  the  vessel  in 
which  Evelyn  was  to  embark,  still  keeping  silence.  At  last, 
during  the  final  preparations  for  embarking,  Evelyn  asked,  look¬ 
ing  full  into  the  face  of  his  friend  : 

“  Well,  what  think  you  of  this  state  of  things,  M’Don- 
nell  ?” 

“Asa  Roman  Catholic,  Evelyn,  I  must  think  that  the  deter¬ 
mination  of  King  James  to  dispense  with  the  illiberal  forms 
which  exclude  from  all  civil  and  political  rank  a  great  portion  of 
his  subjects,  is  equitable.  After  the  uncontradicted  assertions  of 
my  reverend  seconder,  last  night,  I  must  believe  it  is  his  privilege 
so  to  do  ;  but  I  also  fear,  that  if  now  opposed,  in  equity  and 
privilege,  by  proud  churchmen  and  slender  politicians  on  the 
one  side,  while  he  is  equally  inflamed  and  misguided  by  church¬ 
men  as  haughty  and  politicians  as  slender  on  the  other  side,  King 
James  may  be  driven  into  methods  of  enforcing  his  plain  right,  or 
of  punishing  resistance  to  it,  such  as  will,  once  more,  involve 
these  kingdoms  in  anarchy,  tear  asunder  the  social  ties  that  have 
just  been  tenderly  formed,  array  heart  against  heart — brother 
against  brother  ;  and,”  Edmund  continued,  as  his  eyes  ran  over, 
“confirm  in  wretchedness  and  degradation  the  wretched  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


115 


degraded  country  you  have  now  the  happiness  to  part  from. 
Farewell ! — the  boat  waits  you.” 

“  Farewell,  M’Donnell !”  They  shook  hands,  and  were  sepa¬ 
rated. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Again  we  must  pass  over  much  time  that,  we  candidly  admit, 
we  are  not  otherwise  able  to  manage.  The  sisterly  sorrows  of 
Eva  and  Esther  at  the  absence  of  Evelyn  ;  the  efforts  of  young 
M’Dounell  to  make  both  forget  their  loss,  and  his  partial  suc¬ 
cess  with  one,  at  least — all  this  the  fair  reader  will  please  to 
imagine  ; — together  with  how  they  spent  their  time,  in  reading, 
walking,  music,  and  edifying  conversation.  Some  general  mat¬ 
ters  come,  however,  more  immediately  under  our  notice,  and  are 
cognizable  by  even  humble  capacities. 

Soon  after  Evelyn’s  departure,  his  sister  (her  health  now  well 
established,  though  even  amid  the  sunshine  of  love,  and  of  her 
lover’s  smile,  the  young  lady’s  spirits  wore  an  unaccountable 
melancholy),  Uncle  Paul,  his  lady,  and  Uncle  Jerry,  removed  to 
their  house  on  the  banks  of  Lough  Neagh,  accompanied  by  Eva, 
and  with  the  hope  of  a  speedy  visit  from  Edmund.  He  did,  in¬ 
deed,  soon  join  them.  Once  more  by  the  side  of  that  great 
lake — a  fresh-water  sea,  as  we  believe  it  has  been  called — the 
young  trio  resumed  their  endless  walks,  and  repetitions  of  the 
same  ideas  and  feelings.  But,  though  thus  fallen  into  his  old 
habits  of  luxurious  inaction,  M’Donnell  did  not,  as  formerly,  shut 
his  ears,  or  allow  himself  to  remain  indifferent  to  the  occurrence 
of  some  things,  and  the  rumors  of  others,  in  the  real  world.  A 
portion  of  his  time  had,  previous  to  his  present  visit  to  Lough 
Neagh,  been  spent  at  the  castle  of  his  cousin,  the  earl  of  An¬ 
trim  ;  and  from  that  veteran  and  watchful  politician  he  could  not 
fail  to  be  informed  of  certain  changes  in  opinions  and  measures, 
for  which  the  times  were  but  too  remarkable.  Nor,  when  he 
arrived  among  his  friends,  did  Edmund  lack  continued  informa¬ 
tion  of  new  events,  though,  it  must  be  owned,  they  were  con¬ 
veyed  in  a  coloring  different  from  that  in  which  matters  had  lately 
been  represented  to  him.  Mrs.  Evelyn  boasted  her  female  cor- 


116 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


respondents  in  London  and  Derry  ;  ladies  of  about  her  own  age, 
and  of  something  of  her  turn  of  mind,  too.  So  that,  by  vo¬ 
luminous  epistles  from  the  former-mentioned  city,  she  was  advised 
of  the  speedy  approach  of  universal  Papistry  ;  while  from  the 
latter-mentioned,  came  weekly  dispatches  of  the  same  nature, 
joined  to  assurances  of  a  great  massacre,  by  the  Papists,  of 
all  the  Protestants  in  Ireland,  to  take  place,  according  to  the 
yet  vaguely  understood  prophecies  of  Collum-Kill  (half  of  the 
name  an  apt  one),  some  time  towards  the  close  of  the  year — day 
and  date  not  yet  exactly  known.  But,  as  zealous  men  were 
at  work  to  ascertain  both,  Mrs.  Evelyn  might  be  assured 
her  dear  friend  would  soon  communicate  the  result. 

The  best  of  it  was,  that  only  a  short  time  previous  to  Mrs. 
Evelyn’s  removal  from  the  seashore,  an  old  woman,  the  nurse  of 
Edmund,  came  one  day,  running  as  fast  as  she  was  able,  pillaloo- 
ing,  and  out  of  breath,  and  squatted  down,  on  her  knees  and 
heels,  before  the  astonished  lady,  to  beg  her  protection  against 
a  universal  murdering  of  the  Roman  Catholics  by  the  Protest¬ 
ants,  then  also  calculated  on  with  the  utmost  certainty.  Soon 
after,  Mrs.  Evelyn  received  her  first  hints  that  the  matter 
was  to  be  all  the  other  way.  And  as  the  old  woman  con¬ 
tinued  her  clamorous  suit,  many  scenes  of  contradiction,  and  at 
last  of  scolding,  ensued  between  them  ;  each  angry  of  the  charges 
of  the  other  against  her  own  sect ;  each  rancorously  believing 
any  thing  bad  enough  for  Papists  or  heretics  to  do  ;  each  certain 
of  the  speedy  occurrence  of  horrors  beyond  all  powers  of  imagina¬ 
tion  ;  and  each  terribly  frightened,  of  course.  And  the  whole  of 
this  would  have  proved  amusing,  had  the  questions  been  exclu¬ 
sively  discussed  by  individuals  such  as  the  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Eve¬ 
lyn,  and  her  correspondents.  But  when,  for  a  long  time,  hordes 
of  the  Roman  Catholics  of  the  country,  strong,  able-bodied  fel¬ 
lows,  might  be  found  night  after  night,  lying  out  in  solitary  and 
waste  places  to  escape  the  great  massacre  ;  when  documents,  ex¬ 
pressive  of  their  fears,  were  forwarded  to  England  by  persons  of 
the  same  persuasion,  though  of  rank  and  education  seemingly 
sufficient  to  elevate  them  out  of  such  vulgar  terrors  ;  and  when, 
very  soon  after  the  advices  of  Mrs.  Evelyn’s  affectionate  friends, 
men  as  high  and  as  "well  educated,  on  the  Protestant  side,  were 
found  to  countenance  and  increase  the  second  popular  panic, 
what,  under  such  circumstances,  shall  be  said  of  human  nature  ? 
One  may  laugh  at  the  visions  and  terrors  of  an  old  lady  or  an 
old  woman,  but  not  so  at  the  indiscriminate  absurdity  which  thus 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  117 

enfeebles  the  minds  of  rational  people,  and  causelessly  excites 
the  active  rancor  of  a  divided  people. 

More  than  one  letter  came,  of  course,  from  Evelyn,  to  console 
his  sister  and  her  friend  for  his  absence,  as  well  as  to  give 
accounts  of  the  favorable  progress  of  his  affairs.  A  third  or 
fourth  arrived,  accompanied  by  one  for  Uncle  Paul  and  another 
for  Uncle  Jerry.  Evelyn  was  of  age,  and  coming  home  ;  and  his 
epistle  to  Eva  was  to  urge  the  naming  of  a  day,  within  a  week 
after  the  time  it  would  take  him  to  get  home,  for  their  union. 
Those  to  his  uncles  communicated  the  state  of  his  affections,  and 
asked  their  consent.  The  epistle  for  Uncle  Paul  came  inclosed 
to  Uncle  Jerry,  with  a  request  to  the  latter  uncle  to  hand  it,  in 
private,  to  the  former,  and  procure  a  written  consent,  as  Evelyn 
had  before  planned,  ere  Mrs  Evelyn  should  see  it.  Merry  Jerry 
readily  obeyed  his  instructions  ;  and  setting  to  work  with  a 
tact  one  would  not  suppose  him  capable  of,  soon  got  Paul  to 
write,  in  answer,  a  full  permission,  yea,  blessing,  for  the  nuptials 
of  his  dear  nephew.  After  this,  the  young  party,  accompanied  by 
the  conscious  Jerry,  set  out  upon  a  long  excursion,  leaving  the 
house  in  possession  of  Paul  and  his  lady  ;  and  when  they  returned, 
Paul  was  sitting  in  a  corner,  looking  (Jerry  whispered)  as  if  he 
had  been  whipped,  and  Mrs.  Evelyn  busy,  with  closed  lips,  which 
she  did  not  open  to  salute  her  niece  or  their  friends,  in  making  vio¬ 
lent  preparations  for  a  journey  to  Derry,  early  on  the  next  morning. 

“  Powder-room  on  fire  !  up  we  go  in  the  hoisting  of  a  gib  1” 
said  Jerry  to  Edmund,  as  they  entered  after  the  young  ladies ; 
and,  indeed,  as  soon  his  sister-in-law  saw  him,  she  gave  a  pre¬ 
paratory  fizz. 

“  You — let — me — have — that — paper — brother — Jerry,”  she 
said,  tugging  hard,  between  every  word,  at  a  trunk  she  was 
cording. 

“  What  paper,  sister  Janet  ?”  he  asked,  very  simply. 

“  No  matter — I  need  not  describe  it  ;  thou  knowest  well  the 
paper  I  mean.” 

“  Bless  my  limbs,  how  could  I  know,  Janet  ?” 

“  Give  me  directly,”  she  resumed,  letting  go  the  trunk,  which 
then  tumbled  off  the  chair,  flew  open,  and  afforded  vent  to  a 
bundle  of  hard-crammed  things,  among  which  were  many  bottles, 
small  and  great,  green  and  transparent,  that  the  fall  reduced  into 
shivers,  while  their  various  contents  splashed  over  the  floor  ; 
“  give  me  directly,  I  say,”  fully  ignited  by  the  accident,  “  the 
letter  you  forced  Mr.  Evelyn  to  write  to  his  base  nephew.” 


118 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  I  would  if  I  could,  sister  ;  but  it  has  gone  long  ago  for  the 
post” — though  Jerry  well  knew  he  was  to  keep  it  till  Evelyn’s 
arrival,  and  so  had  never  sent  it  for  the  post.  “  Lend  a  hand,” 
he  continued  to  Edmund,  in  a  whisper,  “  if  she  boards  me  on  a 
search.” 

“  Thou  wilt  not  ?”  resumed  the  lady,  approaching. 

“Why,  look  you,  sister,  I  cannot,”  getting  Edmund  between 
him  and  his  relative. 

“  Then  beg  and  starve  1”  Mrs.  Evelyn  went  on  ;  “  for  a  foot  in¬ 
side  my  door  thou  shalt  never  set.  My  bread  thou  shalt  never 
eat,  my  cup  never  drink  again.  Too  long  hast  thou  done  so,  in 
idleness,  and  worse,  in  beastly  drunkenness.” 

“  Merry  I  was,  sister,  doubtless.” 

“  After  thy  life  of  sea-roving  and  sea-robbing,  and,  mayhap, 
something  else  ;  ay,  home  you  came  to  fatten,  lazily,  on  the 
hard  earnings  of  honest  folk.  But  take  my  warning,  never  let 
me  see  thy  face  at  my  door  1” 

“Poor  I  was,  poor  I  am,  sister  Janet,  and  poor  I  shall  be, 
but  hearty  ;  poor  on  the  sea,  on  land,  in  your  house,  and  in 
others,  but  hearty  still.  And  though  you  discharge  me,  some 
other  will  want  a  hand,  and  so  hearty  still  and  still  ;  or  let  the 
whole  fleet  say  me  nay,  hearty,  hearty  forever!  that’s  Jerry’s 
word !” 

“As  to  thee,  madam  niece,”  Mrs.  Evelyn  rejoined,  not  deigning 
to  take  further  notice  of  him,  “  no  use,  I  suppose,  in  asking  thee 
to  join  your  natural  protectors  early  to-morrow  morning.” 

“  I  am  in  my  brother’s  house,  madam  ;  and,  till  he  comes 
home,  will  have  the  protection  of  my  Uncle  Jeremiah.” 

“  Will  you  ?”  interrupted  Jerry,  running  to  salute  her.  “  Hearty 
and  merry,  then,  we  will  be !  Let  her  go  1”  in  a  confidential 
whisper. 

“  I  see  how  it  is,  lady  niece  ;  this  is  not  to  end  in  the  intro¬ 
duction  of  one  beggarly  Papist,  alone,  into  the  family,”  scowling 
at  Edmund.  “  But  do,  do  have  them — have  them  both  ;  and 
look  well  to  your  throats  afterwards,  at  the  end  of  the  year.  As 
to  me,”  she  continued,  clasping  her  hands,  glancing  upwards,  and 
ending  in  the  pathetic,  “  as  for  me  and  my  husband,  and  the  other 
good  and  unhappy  Protestants  of  this  afflicted  land,  the  merciful 
Providence  that  has  ever  shielded  us,  will'  not  now  see  us  perish  ; 
come,  Paul !”  She  rushed  out  of  the  apartment,  and  obedient 
Paul,  pattering  rapidly  on  his  little  legs  and  cane,  followed  her. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  kept  her  word.  Next  morning,  at  daybreak,  she 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


119 


departed  for  Derry  city.  A  few  days  after,  Edmund  also  under¬ 
took  a  journey  to  Carrickfergus,  to  meet  Evelyn  on  his  landing, 
as  his  letter  intimated  that  he  should  embark  from  an  English 
port  for  that  town.  The  lady  of  the  earl  of  Antrim  had  some 
time  been  expecting  a  visit  from  the  two  sisters,  and  previous  to 
Edmund’s  departure,  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  go,  during 
his  absence,  to  Glenarm  Castle. 

Accordingly  he  accompanied  them  thither  ;  and  afterwards 
spent,  under  his  father’s  roof,  the  night  previous  to  his  intended 
setting  out  for  Carrickfergus.  The  next  morning  his  dumb  uncle 
aroused  him  with  looks  and  a  manner  of  unusual  energy.  Ed¬ 
mund,  arising  quickly,  collected  from  his  signs  that  his  favorite 
roadster  had  been  stolen,  overnight,  from  the  field  in  which  it 
usually  grazed ;  and  all  around  him  concurred  in  attributing  the 
theft  to  “  The  Tories,”  or  “  The  Rapparees,”  names  used  in  com¬ 
mon — though  one  of  them  has  since  become  the  honorable  ap¬ 
pellation  of  honorable  men — to  describe  the  bands  of  freebooters 
who  were  then  beginning  to  be  heard  of  in  Ireland. 

“  An’  it’s  them  that  lifted  hur  horse,”  added  some  that  could 
attempt  Euglish,  “  wid  Rory-na-chopple”  (Rory  of  the  horses) 
“  at  their  head,  if  he’s  alive  to  do  it.  For,  barrin  him,  an’  we 
that  the  baste  knows,  no  man  in  the  north  could  lay  hands  on 
wild  Pawdhrick,  hur  honor’s  own  coult.” 

This  accident  was  provoking  at  such  a  time.  Edmund  had  no 
second  horse  half  so  well  able  for  a  rapid  journey  over  very  bad 
roads  ;  yet,  as  delay  was  out  of  the  question,  he  resolved  to  do 
the  best  he  could.  So,  procuring  but  an  indifferent  animal,  and 
accompanied  by  his  dumb  uncle  and  Oliver,  both  equally  anxious 
at  once  to  protect  him  from  the  Tories,  and  to  welcome  Evelyn 
home,  M’Donnell  bent  his  way  to  Carrickfergus. 

With  much  difficulty  he  urged  on  his  feeble  and  ill-paced  steed 
to  within  the  last  stage  of  Carrickfergus  ;  and  there  it  dropped, 
exhausted  and  in  convulsions,  under  him,  on  a  wild  road-side,  out 
of  view  of  any  house  at  which  he  might  hope  to  borrow  or  pur¬ 
chase  another.  Casting  his  eyes  impatiently  around,  he  saw, 
however,  a  handsome  and  well-limbed  colt  grazing  in  a  field  near 
the  road.  Further  on,  and  on  a  rising  ground,  stood  a  man,  as 
if  observing  Edmund’s  accident,  who,  he  hoped,  might  be  its 
master.  To  this  man  he  therefore  moved,  with  his  companions. 
His  calculations  proved  correct ;  the  peasant  was,  or  said  he  was, 
the  proprietor  of  the  young  horse — willing  to  part  with  him.  A 
bargain  was  soon  concluded. 


120 


THE  BOYNE  WATEft. 


“  It’s  the  only  bother  you’ll  have  is  to  ketch  him,”  observed 
the  man,  when  he  had  put  up  the  purchase-money,  and  speaking 
a  southern  patois  ;  “  when  he’s  in  the  field,  he’s  the  devil  entirely 
in  regard  o’  that.” 

“But  supposing  him  caught,  can  I  ride  him,  my  good-fellow ? 
has  he  ever  been  crossed  ?”  inquired  Edmund,  who,  in  his  eager¬ 
ness  to  obtain  the  horse,  had  asked  few  questions  as  to  his  quali 
fieations. 

“  Musha,  to  be  sure  it  has,  many’s  the  odd  time  ;  and  nevei 
the  much  he’s  the  better  o’  that  same.” 

“No  matter,”  resumed  Edmund,  who  complimented  himself  on 
much  skill  in  the  management  of  horse-flesh  ;  “Ill  catch  him  and 
tame  him  too.” 

He  bounded  into  the  field  after  the  colt.  At  his  first  appear¬ 
ance,  the  animal  threw  up  his  head,  snorted,  and  gave  one  or 
two  wheels  round  about  ;  when  Edmund  approached  nearer,  he 
kicked  up  his  heels,  and  galloped  buoyantly,  and  as  if  in  mock¬ 
ery,  across  the  meadow.  His  pursuer,  changing  his  plan,  stopped 
some  time,  and  then  slowly  advanced  again,  holding  out  his  cap, 
and  using  his  softest  tones  of  entreaty  :  but  all  to  no  use  ;  the  colt 
either  waited  until  he  was  about  to  come  too  near,  and  then  re¬ 
sumed  his  race,  or  else  did  not  let  Edmund  within  forty  yards  of  him. 

“  Curse  you  then,”  M’Donnell  cried,  standing  to  look,  near  the 
road-side,  at  the  mad  pranks  of  the  horse  he  had  purchased,  but 
could  not  catch  ;  “  curse  you  for  a  wild  devil  ;  the  only  colt, 
except  my  own  that  I  have  lost,  I  could  not  lay  hands  on  at  the 
first  offer.  He  is  like  Pawdriek,  too,  in  make,  though  so  differ¬ 
ent  in  color.” 

“  It  minds  me,”  said  Oliver,  condescending  to  mirth,  “  of  the  auld 
receipt  to  make  hare-soup,  beginning  thus — first  catch  the  hare.” 

“  I’ll  try  him  again,”  said  Edmund. 

“Little’s  the  use  to  go  about  it  that  a-way,”  observed  a  man, 
a  traveller,  but  a  pedestrian,  who,  advancing  in  the  direction  our 
friends  had  come,  now  halted  at  the  almost  unfenced  edge  of  the 
field  that  bordered  on  the  road. 

“  And  in  what  way  then,  friend  ?”  M'Honnell  asked,  turning 
to  the  speaker,  whose  first  appearance  instantly  attracted  his  at¬ 
tention.  The  man  was  of  middle-age,  barefooted  and  bare¬ 
legged,  and  bareheaded  too,  his  profuse  and  matted  black  hair 
seemingly  encouraged  in  its  growth  to  do  away  with  the  super 
fluity  of  a  hat ;  his  neck  had  a  strange  twist  in  it  ;  his  body 
stooped  a  little  from  the  hips  ;  his  nethor  limbs  were  crooked 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


121 


and  ill-jointed,  so  that  when  he  walked  his  gait  appeared  half¬ 
shuffling,  half-hobbling  ;  and  his  face,  of  a  tanned,  tawny  color, 
showed  small  black  pig-eyes,  crow-footed  and  wrinkled  all  round, 
and  a  mouth  ever  smiling,  or  simpering  rather,  of  which  the  ele¬ 
vating  muscles  of  the  upper  lip,  that  ran  down  from  the  nose, 
were,  from  constant  use,  strongly  marked.  The  old  coat  and 
inexpressibles  he  wore,  seemed  of  southern  fashion  and  color  ; 
and  at  his  heels  trotted  a  little  bov,  bareheaded  and  barefooted 
also,  attending  on  him  with  something  of  the  air  of  a  young 
sweep  of  the  present  day  pattering  after  his  overgrown  director. 

“  I  could  soon  show  you,  genteels,  in  what  way,”  this  master 
resumed,  answering  Edmund’s  question,  “  only  it’s  my  thrade, 
afther  a  manner,  an’  I  lives  by  it.” 

“  And  that’s  the  very  reason,  I  should  suppose,  why  you  ought 
to  show  me  instantly,  instead  of  being  a  cause  for  your  objec¬ 
tion,  friend.” 

“  Thrue  for  you  !”  simpering,  and  shuffling  a  step  forward, 
“  barrin  it  war  in  regard  o’  the  thrifle  o’  lucre,  that  the  neigh¬ 
bors,  God  bless  ’em,  gi’  me  the  fashion  o’  lookin’  for.” 

“  Oh,  is  that  all?  Catch  the  colt  then,  and  depend  on  being 
paid  for  your  trouble.” 

“No  throuble  in  life,”  taking  a  step  into  the  field  ;  “bud,” 
stopping  again,  “  maybe,  genteel,  you’d  as  lieve  throw  it  to  us 
aforehand,  jest  to  save  time,  and  see  the  coult  well-cotched  ?” 

“  My  good  fellow,”  said  Edmund,  beginning  to  suspect  his  man, 
“no  colt,  no  pay  ;  so  set  to  work,  or  go  about  your  business.” 

“Musha,  haw  um  sauxtha;  sure  it’s  all  as  one  as  the  same 
thing,”  the  man  resumed,  not  a  whit  out  of  humor.  He  moved 
towards  the  young  horse,  crying  out,  or  rather  simpering  : 

“  Phree-a,  phree-a ,  go-aun-sugh,  go-aun-sugh,  brommaheen 
dhuiv”  (come  here,  come  here,  young  black  horse).  The  colt 
stopped,  and  gazed  wistfully  on  the  stranger,  who,  not  advancing 
more  than  midway  in  the  field,  stood  still,  contenting  himself 
with  merely  beckoning  to  the  animal.  M’Donnell,  to  his  perfect 
amazement,  saw  the  colt  walk  towards  this  conjuror,  and  submit 
his  head  to  his  grasp.  Both  came  together  to  the  unfeuced 
road-side,  and  there  halted. 

“  Fon  lath,  f on  lath ,”  continued  the  captor  ;  “fon  lath,  avich ” 
(stand  there,  stand  there,  my  son).  The  horse  remained  quiet  as 
lamb. 

“Well  caught,  indeed,”  said  Edmund,  giving  the  man  some 
money ;  “  but  how  have  you  done  it  ?” 

e 


122 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Nothin’  asier  in  life,”  putting  up  his  fee,  and  still  simpering 
very  iunocently  ;  “  only  it’s  jest  a  little  bit  of  a  sacret  that  I  had 
from  the  father  afore  me,  an’  ’ill  leave  to  this  son  that  is  to  come 
afther  me,”  pointing  to  the  boy,  “  an’  no  one  else,  plaise  God. 
But  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  genteel,  some  of  it.  Sure  I  give  ’em 
a  whisper,  that  they  hears  acrass  the  field,  an’  nobody  else  can  • 
an’  then  they’d  come  to  me,  two  fields  aff,  an’  folly  me  the  world 
over,  out  of  a  likin’  they  takes  to  me,  or  a  thing  o’  the  kind. 
Look  at  them  now,”  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  rudely-fenced 
extremities  of  the  field,  over  which  more  than  one  horse  had,  in¬ 
deed,  thrust  their  heads,  while  others  actually  cleared  the  fence 
and  seemed  well  inclined  to  approach  the  stranger. 

“  And  from  whom  did  your  father  get  the  secret  ?” 

“  Why,  then,  I  jest  may’s  well  tell  you  that  too,  genteel,  while 
the  man  is  liftin’  the  saddle  from  the  one  baste  to  put  it  on  the 
other.  The  father  that  God  ga’  me  follied  the  thrade  o’  making 
o’  shoes  for  horses’  feet,  an’  had  a  bit  of  a  forge,  you  see,  on  the 
borders  o’  the  bog  of  Allen,  where  people  frum  all  parts  used  to 
cum  to  get  their  bastes  shoed  ;  an’  a  good  hand  at  his  trade  my 
father  war,  only  one  thing  gave  him  the  laste  bit  o’  throuble  in 
the  world,  an’  that  was  shorn’  o’  young  wild  coults  for  the  first 
time,  cratures  that  never  afore  could  tell  a  shoe  from  the  horn  o’ 
their  hoofs,  an’  for  the  same  raison  didn’t  like  it,  an’  wouldn’t 
stand  steady.  Well,  a-roon  ;  one  day  that  he  had  a  raal  mad 
coult  in  his  hands,  my  father  couldn’t  dhrive  a  nail,  nor  put  on 
the  shoe  at  all  at  all,  an’  the  coult  broke  loose  from  him  in  the 
long-run,  and  galloped  into  the  bog,  lavin’  him  standin’  at  the 
forge-dour,  wid  his  hommer  in  his  hand,  as  bothered  as  a  bee  in 
a  fallow-field.*  Upon  that,  up  comes  a  lame  throoper  wid  a  pale 
face,  that  said  he  was  on  the  road  home  from  the  wars.  It 
happened  in  Ould  Noll’s  time  (what  ails  the  genteel  by  the  side 
o’  you  ?)  an’  he  axed  for  a  dhrink  o’  wather.  ‘  Wather  I  won’t 
gi’  you,  bud  milk  I  will,’  my  father  made  answer,  pityin’  the  lame 
throoper’s  case,  bothered  as  he  was  ;  so  they  turned  into  the 
forge,  an’  he  made  the  throoper  sit  down  an’  dhrink  the  good 
nfilk.  ‘Well,’  the  throoper  said,  after  a  rest,  ‘it  rises  my  heart 
eq’l  to  red  wine  ;  an’  for  your  charity  to  the  thraveller  that  cum 
lame  an’  tired  to  your  dour  this  day,  I’ll  tell  you  how  to  ketch 

*  I.  e.f  out  of  his  element,  or  not  knowing  wliat  to  do  ;  as  the  bee  in 
a  fallow-field  flies  from  one  clod  to  another,  and  has  his  labor  for  liii 
pains — no  honey  to  be  got. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


12? 


the  coult  that  broke  frum  you  afore  I  came  in  sight  o7  tht 
place.’ 

“  ‘  An’  how  did  you  know  it  at  all,  thin  V  my  father  axed. 

“‘Never  mind  that/  says  the  throoper  ;  ‘only  listen  to  me 
well.7  Wid  that,  young  genteel,  he  said  in  my  father’s  ear  some 
words,  biddin’  him  to  whisper  them  acrass  the  field,  an’  the  horse 
hid  come,  if  the  divil  itself  war  in  him,  to  his  hand.  An7  agin  he 
whispered  more  words,  that  whin  they7d  be  whispered  in  like 
manner  in  a  horse’s  ear,  let  him  be  ould  or  young,  or  to  be  crossed 
or  shoed,  7ud  bring  him  to  raison,  an7  make  him  stand  like  a  lamb, 
so  that  a  child  might  rise  his  leg  or  mount  him.  An7  sure  enough, 
when  my  father  went  into  the  bog,  an7  whispered  the  first  words 
to  the  coult,  he  came  to  him  like  a  little  dog  ;  an7  when  he  said 
the  second  words  in  his  ear,  at  the  forge-dour,  he  stood  like  a 
child  for  a  whippin7.  An7  ever  afther  my  father,  God  rest  him, 
had  no  bother  in  his  thrade  ;  an7  people  called  him  the  Whis¬ 
perer  from  that  day  out,  the  same  they  calls  mysef  at  the 
present  time.  Only  whin  my  father  cum  back  to  the  forge  to 
give  the  sick  throoper  thanks,  sure  he  was  gone,  an7  no  sight  of 
him  on  the  road  for  miles  about,  an7  no  one  hard  of  him  sence, 
or  before,  I7m  thinkin7,  barrin7  himsef  an7  whosomever  sent  him.7; 

“Standi  stand  there  !77  now  interrupted  Edmund,  roaring  at 
the  colt,  which,  at  last  bridled  and  saddled,  refused  to  let  himself 
be  mounted.  His  new  master  once  or  twice  strove  to  vault  sud¬ 
denly  on  his  back,  but  the  excessive  bounding  and  prancing  of 
the  spirited  young  animal  baffled  him. 

“  Talkin’  so  loud  isn’t  the  way,  neither,”  said  the  Whisperer  ; 
“jest  let  mysef  spake  to  him  agin.” 

And  as  he  hobbled  forward,  the  colt  became  quieter  ;  suffered 
him  to  catch  his  ear  and  lower  his  head  ;  and  the  man  seemed 
about  to  put  his  lips  to  the  ear,  when  he  stopped  suddenly,  and 
turning  to  M’Donnell,  resumed  :  “  You’ll  remember,  genteel,  it’s 
another  branch  o’  the  thrade  ?77 

“  There,  there,77  throwing  more  money  on  the  road,  and  im¬ 
patient  of  losing  time  ;  “  get  me  on  his  back,  and  go  to  the  devil.77 

“  We  thank  you  kindly,  genteel,77  looking  after  the  second 
fee  “  Stoop  a  bit,  ma  bouchal ,  an7  pick  up  what  God  sends.77 
The  urchin  accordingly  gathered  the  money  from  the  road, 
while  his  father  applied  himself  to  the  colt’s  ear.  No  one  heard 
his  whisper,  if  whisper  it  was  ;  but,  in  a  moment,  the  animal 
stood  stock-still,  his  tail  turned  between  his  legs,  and  his  whole 
frame  trembling. 


124 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  There,  now,  get  up ;  an’  the  Lord  speed  y  mr  open  hand 
on  the  road,”  added  the  Whisperer. 

Edmund  accordingly  mounted  at  his  ease,  and  set  forward  to 
Carrickfergus,  with  his  friends  ;  his  new  purchase  quite  man¬ 
ageable,  though  still  spirited.  When  some  distance  from  the 
Whisperer,  he  turned  in  his  saddle  to  have  another  look  at  a 
person  so  gifted,  and  he  thought  he  perceived  him  and  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  dealt  for  the  horse,  laughing  and  chuckling, 
in  a  knowing  way,  together  ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  looked 
again,  and  the  Whisperer  had  parted  from  the  peasant,  and  was 
rapidly  shuffling  on  after  the  travellers,  followed  at  a  quick  trot 
by  the  little  boy.  An  angle  of  the  road  soon  hid  him  alto¬ 
gether  from  Edmund  ;  and  the  party  reached  Carrickfergus 
without  further  sight  of  him. 

It  was  on  a  chill,  dark  evening,  early  in  the  October  of  1688, 
that  they  entered  the  town.  The  streets  were  filled  with  groups 
of  people,  talking  earnestly  together  ;  their  brows  and  faces  as 
gloomy  and  ominous  as  the  evening  ;  and  their  voices  not  rising 
high  enough  to  give  even  the  relief  of  clatter  to  the  scene. 
These,  Edmund  could  perceive,  by  their  dress  and  air,  to  be  the 
Protestant  inhabitants.  Passing  “  the  Queene’s  Majestic’s  cas- 
tell,”  the  party  got  into  the  place  where  markets  were  holden  ; 
and  here  was  another  crowd,  of  a  different  kind.  It  had  been  a 
market-day ;  and  the  peasantry  that,  from  an  extensive  vicinity, 
all  round,  had  attended  the  market,  joined  to  such  of  the  towns¬ 
people  as  were  of  the  Catholic  persuasion,  clustered  about  a 
young  man,  who,  wearing  a  sword  and  periwig,  along  with  what 
otherwise  seemed  a  clerical  costume,  harangued  them  from  a 
turf-car. 

His  discourse  was  at  once  vague  and  alarming.  He  spoke 
to  them  of  a  time  that  was  past,  and  a  time  that  was  coming  ; 
of  the  pouring  out  of  certain  of  the  seven  vials,  of  the  right¬ 
eousness  of  self-defence,  and  the  moral  and  religious  necessity  to 
anticipate,  under  terror  of  the  loss  of  life,  and  of  injury  to  God’s 
Church,  retaliation  by  attack.  He  put  the  people  on  their  guard 
against  false  preachers — firebrands  of  heresy  and  destruction, 
who  were  travelling  about  to  kindle,  among  their  enemies,  the 
flame  that  would  roar  to  devour  them  ;  and  he  particularly 
named  a  heretic  minister,  named  George  Walker,  called  rector 
of  Donoughmore,  in  the  county  of  Tyrone,  who  was  distinguished 
for  devilish  zeal  against  the  Catholic  religion.  Then,  changing 
his  theme,  with  some  address,  the  young  man  warned  them  that 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


125 


they  were  not,  in  such  a  dangerous  situation,  to  wait  for  the 
cold  and  tardy  command  of  rulers,  lukewarm  and  hard-hearted 
to  the  voice  of  a  suffering  people,  and  the  groans  of  a  persecuted 
religion  ;  that  if  such  rulers  did  not  discharge  their  functions, 
he  would  turn  from  them  to  the  people,  who  always  attended 
to  the  counsel  of  their  clergy.  He  concluded  by  this  remark¬ 
able  illustration  :  that  as  God  abandoned  Saul  in  his  lukewarm¬ 
ness,  and  for  his  treatment  of  the  Amalekites,  took  his  kingdom 
from  him,  and  ruined  his  family  ;  as  certainly  would  he  punish 
all  who  should  be  guilty  of  a  similar  disobedience  ;  adding,  that 
as,  at  that  time,  the  people  were  commanded  to  take  all  their 
directions  from  Samuel,  as  from  God,  so,  under  a  like  dispensa¬ 
tion,  would  the  people  of  the  present  day  be  obliged,  at  the  peril 
of  their  souls,  to  listen  to  the  bidding  of  their  pastors. 

“  Good  heaven  1”  cried  Edmund,  almost  unconsciously,  as  the 
preacher  ended  ;  “  what  can  this  warning  mean  ?” 

“  It  means,”  answered  a  person  by  his  side,  “  that  this  evil 
man,  a  Papist  minister,  not  satisfied  with  even  the  gallop  at 
which  his  master  hastens  to  his  ruin,  when  he  but  thinks  to  com¬ 
pass  ours,  would  rouse  up  the  brutal  bigotry  of  his  sect,  to  crush 
him  and  us  together — us,  in  deep-rooted  hatred,  him,  in  impa¬ 
tience  and  wrath.  This  is  O’Haggerty,  the  Dominican  friar,  the 
plague  and  danger  of  the  north.” 

The  preacher  just  tnen  passed  them,  bending  on  M’Donnell  a 
fixed  and  peculiar  regard.  In  him  Edmund  saw,  indeed,  the 
same  person  who  had  met  Evelyn,  his  sister,  and  their  friends, 
outside  Carrickfergus,  as  mentioned  at  the  opening  of  this  story  ; 
though  his  face  and  manner  were  much  changed  by  the  periwig 
and  half-military  dress  and  air  he  had  lately  adopted. 

“  Observe  the  previous  effects  of  this  accurst  ministry  on  the 
ci  owd  he  has  been  addressing  ;  see — almost  every  man  and  lad 
is  armed  with  the  skein,  or  the  half-pike,  or  with  both,”  continued 
the  stranger.  And  M’Donnell  could  not  fail  to  notice  that  the 
people  were,  indeed,  armed,  as  had  been  pointed  out ;  he  also 
recollected  that,  for  some  time  before,  the  peasantry  in  his  own 
neighborhood  generally  carried  weapons  of  the  same  description. 

“  God  defend  us  from  either  of  the  results  this  rash  man  would 
aim  at,  sir  !”  M’Donnell  involuntarily  said. 

The  individual  (also  mounted)  looked  at  him  quickly,  aud  as  if 
somewhat  surprised  and  startled.  Then,  touching  his  hat,  and 
keeping  his  cloak  tight  about  him,  he  rode  slowly  down  the 
street. 


126 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


A  stir  towards  the  end  of  the  street  that  approached  the  quay- 
wall,  drew  the  notice  of  M’Donnell  and  his  friends.  Hastening 
thither,  they  were  told  a  ship  had  just  appeared  in  view, 
steering  for  the  bay.  In  much  interest  and  anxiety,  Edmund 
looked  over  the  ocean  ;  but,  to  his  eyes,  all  was  one  blank  mass 
of  water,  mist,  and  heavy  clouds.  A  man  handed  him  a  tele¬ 
scope,  with  which  he  had,  himself,  spied  the  vessel,  and  M’Don¬ 
nell  could  then  discover  the  shadowy  form  of  a  ship,  emerging, 
like  a  pale  sea-spectre,  through  the  fog  and  drizzling  rain  of  the 
cheerless  evening. 

“She  is  nearer  than  you  think,  too,”  the  man  said  ;  “  the  haze 
hides  her.  In  a  short  time  )  ou  will  see  her  cast  anchor.” 

It  was  even  as  the  experienced  old  fisher  said.  Scarce  ten 
minutes  had  elapsed  when  the  vessel  became  visible  to  the  naked 
eye  ;  in  ten  more,  her  motion  was  observable,  as  she  strove  hard 
with  a  rough  sea  and  an  ebb  tide  ;  another  pause,  and  her  crew 
and  passengers  appeared  grouped  on  her  deck,  and  she  could  be 
seen  hoisting  a  flag,  in  honor  of  the  royal  standard  that  floated 
over  the  old  fortress.  Yet  another — and  amid  the  faces  that 
silently  turned  to  shore,  M’ Donnell  gazed  with  a  beating  heart  to 
try  if  he  could  discover  the  face  of  his  friend — of  the  brother  of 
his  Esther.  Even  at  too  great  a  distance  he  selected  one,  and 
kept  his  eyes  riveted  upon  it ;  the  vessel  hove  nearer  and  nearer 
— he  became  more  and  more  certain  ;  nearer  still — and  it  was 
the  face  of  that  friend,  unseen  for  nearly  two  years,  and  coming 
to  him,  over  the  ocean,  from  a  burning  sun  and  a  strange  people. 

The  friends  recognized  each  other  at  the  same  moment,  and 
together  waved  their  hats  to  each  other.  M’Donnell  cheered  ; 
even  Oliver  chimed  in  ;  the  people  around,  straugers  as  they 
were,  caught  up  the  joyous  shout  ;  it  was  sent  back  from  the 
vessel,  now  just  at  anchor  ;  there  was  a  bustle,  a  confused  noise 
of  voices,  and  a  crowding  around  the  pier  ;  and,  in  another  mo¬ 
ment,  the  friends  had  clasped  hands. 

After  a  necessary  pause,  the  party,  with  their  newly-found  vis¬ 
itor,  hastened  to  seek  refreshment  in  the  only  inn,  or  public,  the 
town  afforded.  It  was  a  thatched  house,  containing,  for  the 
purpose  of  sitting,  and  eating,  and  drinking,  of  all  comers,  but 
one  large  apartment,  badly  ceiled,  earthen  floored,  whitewashed, 
and  with  three  or  four  deal  tables,  at  each  side  of  the  fireplace, 
or  at  its  different  ends,  flanked  by  long  deal  forms. 

A  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  a  military  cocked  hat,  a  red  coat, 
and  his  remaining  leg  decked  out  with  a  clean  white  stocking,  a 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


127 


well-brushed  shoe,  and  a  bright  buckle,  first  attempted,  as  mas¬ 
ter  of  the  house,  to  show  them  into  this  room.  He  was  shoved 
aside  by  a  fresh-faced,  portly  woman  of  forty,  his  spouse,  who, 
smoothing  down  her  apron,  seemed  to  think  herself  most  worthy 
of  doing  the  honors  of  her  tavern.  They  had  a  few  words,  in¬ 
deed,  on  the  point,  before  he  yielded,  from  which  it  was  evident 
that  the  husband  was  an  Englishman,  corrupted  by  the  Scottish 
accent  around  him,  and  the  wife  a  native  Irishwoman,  attempting 
to  speak  his  language  ;  but,  at  last,  her  emphatic — “  Yield, 
Brass !  will  ye  yield,  mon  ?”  quite  prevailed,  and  our  friends 
gained  admission. 

All  the  tables,  with  one  exception,  were  filled  by  different  com¬ 
panies.  At  the  one  end  of  the  room  sat  a  number  of  peasantry, 
some  of  those  we  have  already  seen  in  the  market-place,  collected 
in  twos  and  threes,  from  distant  parts  of  the  surrounding  coun¬ 
ties,  which  had  once  been  wholly  populated  by  people  of  their 
caste  and  religion.  At  the  other,  an  almost  equal  number  of 
townspeople,  manufacturers,  and  fishers  ;  round  the  table,  to  the 
right  of  the  hearth,  were  half  a  dozen  soldiers  of  the  garrison. 
The  peasants  talked  loudly,  in  Irish  ;  the  townspeople  as  much, 
but  in  a  lower  tone  ;  the  soldiers  said  nothing.  But  all  were 
employed  in  one  common  occupation — that  is,  the  drinking  of 
strong  ale. 

Evelyn,  Edmund,  Oliver,  and  Con  M’Donnell  took  possession 
of  the  spare  tables.  Such  a  dinner  as  the  house  could  afford 
was  laid  before  them  ;  and  such  as  it  was,  all  ate  heartily.  It 
was  removed,  and  replaced  by  good  liquor  of  various  kinds  ;  and 
Evelyn  and  Edmund  at  last  had  time  to  ask  and  give  much  in¬ 
formation  about  home,  and  all  at  home.  Both  then  wished  to 
exchange  opinions  on  another  topic,  but  their  situation,  amongst 
such  a  crowd  of  people,  and  finally,  a  toast  proposed,  in  a  cup 
of  ale,  by  one  of  the  peasants,  with  its  consequences,  prevented 
them. 

“  Rhia  Shamus  Abo  !”  cried  the  man,  raising  his  cup,  and  ad¬ 
dressing  himself  to  the  whole  room.  None  but  his  own  party 
jo  ok  notice. 

‘‘King  Shamus!”  repeated  another,  translating  his  friend’s 
Irish,  and  also  looking  round,  as  if  he  called  on  every  one  to 
pledge  him. 

“  King  James  I”  said  the  soldiers  quietly,  and  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

“  King  James !”  echoed  the  townspeople  whispering  some- 


128 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


thing,  perhaps  an  addenda,  to  each  other  ;  and,  “King  James  I* 
our  party  also  repeated  ;  Oliver,  however,  moving  his  lips,  ere 
the  cup  touched  them,  and  looking  expressively  at  the  natives  of 
the  place. 

“  Fat  is  doing  hur  tamned  thief  at  ta  hearth  ?”  asked  the  sec¬ 
ond  peasant  who  had  spoken,  “  will  hur  dhrink  men  Rhia  Sha- 
mus  ?” 

“  Yoursef  is  discoorsin’  mysef,”  answered  the  Whisperer,  who, 
hitherto  uunoticed  by  our  friends,  had  edged  himself,  on  the  end 
of  one  of  the  forms  occupied  by  the  soldiers,  near  to  the  fire,  his 
little  son  sitting  at  his  feet  ;  “  but  you  can  jest  spake  plainer,  in 
the  English  or  the  Irish,  whichever  you  like,  an’  then  we’ll  know 
what  it  is  you  mane.” 

“  You  are  required,”  said  Edmund,  wishing  to  anticipate  an 
angry  rejoinder  from  the  offended  linguist,  “  to  drink  King 
James’s  health.” 

“  Avoch,  is  that  all  ?  Musha,  here’s  his  health,  wid  a  heart 
an’  a  half,  an’  good  loock  to  him  ;  an’  more  loock  nor  some  that 
dhrank  it  afore  had  on  their  lips  or  in  their  hearts  for  him,  may¬ 
be.” 

“  C urp-an-duoul !”  cried  the  peasant,  appropriating  this  in- 
uendo,  “  fat  will  hur  say  ?”  He  rose  very  angrily. 

“  Asy  now,  a-vich  !”  the  Whisperer  answered,  “  how  do  you 
know  I  was  spakin’  to  you,  at-all  at-all  ?  Sure  there’s  more 
people  in  the  world  nor  yoursef,  and  them  that’s  along  wid  you  ; 
though  it’s  far  an’  near  a  body  might  thravel,  of  a  summer’s  day, 
an’  not  meet  sich  a  clane  set  o’  boys,  an’  you  at  their  head — Sha- 
dhurth .”  He  nodded  smilingly,  and  again  drank. 

“  Sha-dhurth  a-bouchal ,”  replied  the  peasant,  others  joining 
him,  while  almost  all  held  out  their  pottle-pots  that  the  Whis¬ 
perer  might  drink  of  their  liquor.  No  ways  tardy  was  he  in 
accepting  the  courtesy. 

“Yon’s  meaning  our  company,”  observed  one  of  the  towns¬ 
people,  aloud  ;  “and  he  mocks  us  before  the  Irish-folk.” 

“  He  is  one  o’  them,  his  ain  sel,”  said  Oliver. 

“Do  you  speer  ony  thing  at  us,  mon  ?”  inquired  many  voices. 

“  Shpeer  ?  what  ’ud  that  be.  genteels  !”  said  the  Whisperer, 
smiling  simply,  as  they  scowled  at  him. 

“  Have  you  meant  to  accuse  any  of  these  gentlemen  of  hidden 
disloyalty  to  King  James?”  Edmund  again  asked,  still  for  peace 
lake. 

“  Me  !  them  good  gintlemin  !  Musha,  ’ud  I  be  mad,  or 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


129 


cracked,  to  do  any  sich  thing  ?  Civil,  dacent  people,  like  ’em, 
that  minds  their  callin’,  an’  owes  no  ill-will  to  anybody.  My 
sarvice  to  you,  genteels  !” 

“  Aweel  ;  health  till  you,  lad  ;  and  what  for  no  taste  of  our 
pint-stoup  ?”  they  answered. 

“  Never  a  know  myself  knows,  then  and  dragging  his  ill¬ 
framed  limbs  across  the  room,  he  took  a  long  draught  out  of  the 
proffered  pint. 

“  Hark  ye,  good  fellow  !”  said  one  of  the  soldiers,  intercepting 
him  on  his  return  to  the  ingle-corner,  “hast  any  thing  to  say  to 
us  ?” 

“To  be  sure  I  have,  then,  and  why  wouldn’t  I  ?  Hearty  good 
wishes  every  day  ye  get  up,  an’  my  blessin’  over  an’  over  on  the 
sodgers  that  keeps  all  in  pace  an’  quietness,  out  o’  love  an’  likin’ 
for  King  James — God  look  down  on  him  !” 

“  A  simple-witted  fellow,”  said  the  soldier  to  ms  companions. 
“  Here,  then,  let’s  be  friends,  man  and  they,  too,  shoved  him  a 
cup  of  ale,  of  which  he  did  not  drink  sparingly.  The  soldiers 
then  called  their  reckoning,  paid  it,  and  went  away. 

“  Good  loock  to  them,  I  say  agin,”  the  Whisperer  continued, 
as  he  resumed  his  seat,  “  for  it’s  them  that  won’t  let  poor  bos- 
thoons  like  us  have  it  all  our  own  way,”  glancing  at  the  peasants, 
while  he  looked  his  meaning  elsewhere. 

“  Fat  will  hur  mane  now  ?”  said  their  spokesman,  once  more 
rising  wrathfully. 

“  Sure  you  knows,  whatever  a  poor  boy  like  me  manes,  he 
doesn’t  mane  ye ,”  winking  at  them.  They  broke  into  a  loud 
roar  of  assent,  and  some  rose  to  clasp  his  hand,  and  give  him 
more  ale,  gratis. 

“No  more  nor  the  genteels  foment  ye,”  he  went  on,  seeing  the 
other  table  look  threatening.  “Sure  none  o’  them  is  auld  enough 
to  remember  Black  Noll,  any  way,  that  came  to  kill  us  all  for  the 
risin’  we  had  out  o’  the  love  for  King  James’s  father.  An’  so 
none  o’  them  ’ud  want  to  kill  us  all  now,  over  again,  for  likin’  his 
father’s  son.” 

“  I  remember  my  righteous  namesake  weel,”  said  Oliver  ;  “  and 
I  remember  other  things  before  his  time  in  this  land.  I  remem 
ber  the  Forty-one.” 

“  Why,  then,  your  memory  is  nothin’  to  brag  of,  a-vich,”  ob 
served  the  Whisperer,  still  simperingly. 

“  And  our  forbears  remember  it  too,”  added  the  townspeople. 

“That’s  no  fault  o’  your  own,  genteels,”  he  replied. 

6* 


130 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  But  is  it  mine,  if  I  do  ?”  asked  Oliver. 

“  Troth,  an’  it’s  yoursef  knows  that  best,  a-bouchal  machree  ; 
sure  no  one  minds  what  a  poor  boy  like  me  says  ;  one  that  was 
burnt  wid  the  frost  the  last  hard  year,  an’  has  no  sense.  Only — 
bad  loock,  seed,  breed,  an’  generation,  to  the  bloody  dogs  o’  the 
Forty-one.” 

“  Thou  hast  said  it,”  exclaimed  Oliver  sternly,  and  half-un¬ 
sheathing  a  horseman’s  old  sword  as  he  rose.  The  townspeople 
rose  with  him  ;  and  the  peasants  started  up  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

“  Pullaloo !”  cried  the  Whisperer,  the  only  unruffled  person  in 
company,  “do  you  ever  ax  yoursef  what  you’re  goin’  to  doafore- 
hand  ?  A  word  in  your  ear,  gossip.”  Oliver  was  now  near  enough 
to  stoop  down,  still  on  his  guard,  and  comply  with  this  invitation. 
“  J est  raison  a  bit,  an’  thry  in  your  own  mind  what  bloody  dogs 
I  mane  the  rest  was  a  very  close  whisper. 

“  Say’st  thou  ?”  again  asked  Oliver. 

“  Arrah,  to  be  sure  I  do.  There,  now,  sit  down  again  wid  the 
genteels  ;  an’,  stay — you  an’  mysef  didn’t  dhrink  a  drop  yet — 
here,  taste  this.  Musha,  bad  end  to  it,  but  it’s  afther  makin’  it- 
sef  empty !” 

“Nathless  shalt  thou  drink  with  me,”  said  Oliver;  and  he 
brought  from  the  table  his  own  liquor,  of  which  the  Whisperer 
did  not  spare  a  mouthful. 

“  The  chield  can  whisper  to  a  purpose,”  resumed  some  of  the 
townspeople. 

“The  man  hath  spoken  words  of  plain  sense,”  said  Oliver, 
“  whilk  sufficed  to  quiet  me.  He  hath  declared  that  he  meant, 
by  his  denouncing  of  the  bloody  dogs  of  the  Forty-one,  neither 
me  nor  those  of  my  persuasion.” 

“  Musha,  did  I,  gossip  ?”  resumed  the  Whisperer,  now  removed 
from  the  hearth  to  a  seat  among  the  peasants  ;  “  maybe  it’s  jokin 
you’d  be  ;  or  maybe  it’s  the  burnin’  I  got  in  the  frost  that  bid 
me  say  it.  An’  maybe,  agin,  it’s  the  same  thing  bids  me  say  now 
— ill-end,  kith  an’  kin,  root  an’  branch,  to  the  murtherin’  villains 
of  the  Gobbins  Heughs.” 

“  Ha  !”  cried  Oliver,  starting  to  his  feet,  fully  unsheathing  his 
sword,  and  aiming  a  furious  slash  at  the  Whisperer.  One  of  the 
peasants  took  it  on  a  half-pike,  and  all  sprang  up  with  other  half¬ 
pikes,  or  rude  skeins,  iu  their  hands.  At  the  same  moment,  the 
townspeople  rushed  to  support  Noll,  some  of  them  showing  pistols, 
hitherto  concealed,  some  seizing  the  pewter  vessels.  A  man  of  9 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


131 


inperior  air  to  the  rest,  whom  our  party  did  not  before  notice, 
but  whom  Edmund  recognized  as  the  person  that  spoke  to  him  in 
the  street  after  the  friar’s  sermon,  put  himself  at  their  head,  and 
also  presenting  a  pistol,  cried — 

“Down  with  the  cruel  Papists !  down  with  them  !”  Just  then 
the  door  flew  open,  and  in  ran,  followed  by  the  host  and  hostess. 
Friar  O’Haggerty  himself.  He,  too,  drawing  his  sword,  assumed 
command  of  the  peasants,  encouraging  them  with — 

“  Defend  yourselves,  Catholics,  against  the  cruel  heretics  I” 

“  Peace !  peace  !w  cried  the  landlord  and  landlady. 

“  Peace  !  peace  !”  echoed  Edmund  and  Evelyn. 

The  dumb  man  bounded  at  Oliver’s  throat  like  a  mastiff*,  in¬ 
stantly  got  him  down,  and  wrenched  the  sword  from  his  hand. 
Yet  other  weapons  clashed,  and  more  than  one  shot  was  fired, 
when  two  new  peacemakers  entered  ;  one,  old  Priest  M’Donnell, 
of  Cushindoll,  another  a  tall,  spare  man,  of  very  primitive  dress, 
manner,  and  appearance.  The  former,  shaking  more  violently 
than  ever,  seized  O’Haggerty’s  hands — he  could  reach  no  higher  ; 
the  other  confronted  the  leader  of  the  townspeople. 

“  I  entreat  you — I  command  you,  sir  !”  cried  the  old  priest ; 
“  obey  me,  as  you  are  bound  to  do — sheath  your  sword.”  Then 
addressing  the  peasants  in  Irish,  he  similarly  exhorted  and  com¬ 
manded  them. 

“  Art  thou  a  Christian  ?”  demanded  the  second  peacemaker  of 
the  other  leader  ;  “  dost  thou  believe  in  the  word  as  a  message 
of  peace  and  good-will  to  all  ?  and  yet  wilt  thou  urge  on  these 
poor  sinful  people  to  do  murder  ?” 

“  Peace,  I  say !  in  the  name  of  God,  peace !”  resumed 
Priest  M’Donnell  ;  “  and  if  the  speaking  of  that  name  brings  no 
reason  to  thy  mind — tremble,  man,  tremble  !” 

While  these  efforts  "were  made,  the  other  unembroiled  persons 
of  the  company  were  not  idle  ;  and  in  a  short  time  hostilities 
really  ceased  :  the  only  persons  who  kept  up  a  skirmish  being  the 
landlord  and  landlady  ;  but  as  it  was  between  themselves,  it 
seemed  of  little  moment,  except  for  our  notice.  Protestant  and 
Catholic  as  they  were,  their  endeavors  to  make  peace  consisted  in 
rather  violent  assaults  upon  the  parties  they  liked  least  in  the 
room  ;  and  this  soon  bringing  them  in  contact,  ended  in  an  as¬ 
sault  upon  each  other.  So  that,  when  every  one  else  was  quiet, 
they  were  found  scrambling  in  a  remote  and  clear  corner  ;  the 
hostess,  as  was,  indeed,  usually  the  case  in  such  domestic  acci¬ 
dents,  having  got  her  good  man  on  his  back,  by  tugging  the 


132 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


wooden  leg  from  under  him  ;  and  she  now  held  it  tight,  in  a  line 
perpendicular  to  his  body,  as  she  asked, 

“  Wull  ye  yield,  Brass  ?” 

‘  No,  by  G —  ;  I’ll  doy  mon-like,”  he  answered. 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  face  reddened  with  some  hideous  re¬ 
solve,  as  she  put  both  hands  to  the  wooden  stump  ;  but  ere  she 
could  carry  auy  thing  into  elFect,  Edmund  ran  to  her  ;  and  finally, 
Con  M’Donnell  whipt  her  up  in  his  arms,  carried  her  out  of  the 
room,  and  returned  with  a  key  in  his  hand,  which  he  presented  to 
the  landlord.  At  the  repeated  exhortations  of  Father  M’Don¬ 
nell,  the  peasants  retired  ;  after  them,  under  guidance  of  the  tall, 
spare  man,  the  townspeople.  But  when  the  room  was  so  far 
cleared,  the  old  priest  was  seen  to  gaze  in  consternatiou  at  the 
causer  of  the  whole  disturbance — the  Whisperer,  who  stood  shel¬ 
tered,  by  the  projection  of  the  chimney,  from  all  harm,  his  little 
boy  held  in  his  arms,  and  simpering,  like  a  fiend,  amid  the  riot 
he  had  called  up. 

“Sirs  ?”  cried  the  old  man,  continuing  his  agitated  look,  “see 
ye  that  ?  do  spectres  truly  come  amongst  us  ?” 

“  You  gaze  but  at  flesh  and  blood,  sir,”  said  Edmund  ;  “  we 
know  this  man.” 

“  Threu  enough,”  said  the  Whisperer. 

“  It  is  yourself,  then,  Rory-na-cliopple  1”  continued  the  priest. 

“  Every  inch  o’  me,  plase  your  reverance.” 

All,  except  Evelyn,  who  had  not  heard  of  him,  started  at  the 
announcement  of  this  famous  Rapparee. 

“  Good  sirs !”  continued  the  old  man,  “  as  I  am  to  be  judged, 
I  confessed  that  fellow  at  the  gallows’-foot,  and  saw  him  swing¬ 
ing  on  it.  Look  at  the  twist  in  his  neck !” 

“  I’ll  never  deny  their  threatenin’  the  life  of  an  innocent  poor 
boy,”  said  Rory,  “  that,  afther  all,  the  Lord  wouldn’t  let  ’em 
take,  for  a  raison  I  knows.  For  when  they  cut  me  down,  an’ 
give  the  corpse  to  my  people,  the  life  was  still  wid  me,  an’  I  was 
soon  brought  to  ;  barrin’  this  same  crpokedturn  in  the  neck,  that 
your  reverance  spakes  of,  an’  that  didn’t  hurt  the  bone,  though 
they  thried  their  best.  An’  it’s  as  far  from  me  to  deny  the  good 
coufessin’  your  reverance  gave  me,  the  best  I  ever  got  in  my  born 
days,  any  how,  an’  all  for  nothin’.  God  reward  them  that  threw 
it  in  my  way  !  it’s  all  the  harum  I  wish  ’em.  So  your  reverance 
sees  it  done  me  good.  An’  more  nor  that,  sure  ;  consitherin’  the 
mighty  holy  life  I  lade  ever  sence  ;  an’  am  lamin’  my  poor  dawny 
crature  of  a  child  here,  poor  Cahier— Rory’s  own  darlin’.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


133 


“  Well  I  know  the  life  you  lead,  and  are  bringing  him  up  to, 
wretched  man,”  resumed  Father  M’Donnell.  “Your  feelings  at 
the  gallows-tree  assure  me  of  that  ;  if,  indeed,  he  is  your  own 
child,  and  not  one  of  your  ’prentices.” 

“  My  own  he  is,  your  reverance,  to  the  backbone  ;  an’,  plase 
God  he  lives,  ’ill  show  it  too,  won’t  you,  Cahier,  a-chorra-ma- 
chree  V ’  Cahier  left  his  well-known  life  to  answer. 

“  Sirs,”  continued  the  priest,  “  this  limb  of  Satan  never  has 
less  than  four  ’prentices  regularly  articled  to  him,  at  large  fees, 
and  sent  all  the  ways  from  Kerry,  to  learn  his  trade  of  decoy¬ 
ing  horses,  young  and  old,  handled  or  not  handled,  that  he 
got,  they  say,  from  a  witch  in  the  county  of  Monaghan,  and  that 
brought  his  neck  into  the  halter  only  a  month  since.” 

“There’s  no  great  spixhogc*  on  your  reverance  to  say  the 
like,  savin’  your  reverance’s  presence  ;  only  from  the  father  afore 
me,  that  got  it  from  the  lame  throoper,  whoever  he  war,  as  all 
the  world  knows.  Never  a  one  o’  the  bastes  mysef  was  thinkin’ 
of,  that  same  time,  when  they  thought  to  prove  it  agin  me  ;  bud, 
just  goin’  the  road,  they  follied  me  out  o’  the  gap.  How  can  a 
poor  boy  help  ’em,  if  they  loves  and  likes  me  ?” 

“  Where  is  my  colt,  you  scoundrel  ?”  now  cried  Edmund  at 
his  ear,  while  he  seized  Rory  by  the  crooked  neck  ;  “  where  is 
the  colt  you  stole  out  of  my  father’s  field  last  night  ?  Tell  me, 
this  moment,  where  I  am  to  get  him,  or  I  will  bind  you,  hand 
and  foot,  and  send  you  to  the  mayor  of  Carrickfergus.” 

“  Bind  poor  Rory  away,  plase  your  honor,  if  you  like  it,”  the 
man  answered  meekly  ;  “but,  when  that’s  done,  will  it  make  me 
know  any  thing  o’  the  coult,  or  larn  you  where  to  find  him  ?” 

“  The  thief  speaks  sense  in  this,”  said  the  clergyman,  drawing 
Edmund  aside.  “  Depend  upon  it,  he  has  so  taken  his  measures, 
that  the  robbery  cannot  be  proved  against  him.  As  to  getting 
your  colt  without  speaking  him  fair,  it  is  impossible  ;  heaven 
knows  in  what  part  of  the  kingdom  the  poor  animal  is.  He  has 
own  relations,  reoeivers,  and  agents,  in  Upper  Ossory,  Leitrim, 
Monaghan,  and  Derry,  besides  many  others  in  different  parts  of 
che  country.  Let  me  try  to  manage  the  rogue. — Rory-na- 
chopple,”  returning  to  him,  “you  know  that  by  sending  word 
you  are  alive  in  Carrickfergus,  to-night,  we  can  get  you  hanged 
over  again  to-morrow  morning.  Tell  Master  M’Donnell  how  and 
where  to  recover  his  colt,  and  you  may  go  your  ways,  and  take 


*  Witchcraft. 


134 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


your  own  time  and  road,  and,  mayhap,  find  both  short 
enough.” 

“  Cead  mille  beachus  lath*  your  reverance  ;  bud  what  does 
poor  Rory  know  about  it,  at-all  at-all  ?  May  I  never  see  glory, 
no  more  nor  the  child  in  my  arms  this  holy  an’  blessed  time.” 

“And  that’s  just  as  much  as  will  serve,  mayhap,”  said  the 
Hergyman.  * 

“  Bud  I  have  gossips,  an’  I  have  friends,  an’  people,  over-an’- 
hether,  that  wishes  me  well,  becase  they  have  pity  on  their 
hearts  for  a  poor  boy  like  me  ;  an’  I’ll  tell  you  what  I’ll  do.  I’ll 
spake  to  them  afore  I  go  to  sleep.  An’  if  Neddy  M’Daniel 
rides  out  in  a  shower,  to-morrow,  he’ll  find  himself  on  his  coult’s 
back  in  the  turnin’  of  a  hand.  If  this  doesn’t  come  to  pass, 
may  the  soggarth  be  miles  away  when  I’m  hanged  the  next 
time  !  If  you  hould  me  here,  the  never  a  coult  you’ll  ever  see.” 

“  And  why  in  a  shower?”  asked  Edmund. 

“  That’s  the  little  bit  of  a  sacret  that’s  in  it,”  Rory  replied, 
smiling  very  graciously,  as  if  to  say,  “  sure  you  can’t  be  angry 
wid  a  body  for  that  ?”  and  vague  and  nonsensical  as  was  this 
promise,  the  parties  thought  it  best  to  put  up  with  it. 

“  An’  now  I  may  jest  go  an’  thry  my  endayvors  ?”  he  re¬ 
sumed  ;  and  having  got  an  assent — “  well,  a  good-night,  an’  my 
blessin’  on  all  the  genteels  o’  the  company,  an’  on  all  in  the 
house,  this  night,  I  pray  Gor,”  Rory  said  in  conclusion,  as  he 
shuffled  through  the  door. 


CHAPTER  X. 

W  hen  Rory-na-chopple  had  shuffled  away,  our  friends  resumed 
the  seats  they  had  first  occupied.  They  saw  that  Father  O’Hag¬ 
gerty,  the  friar,  was  placed,  in  sullen  mood,  at  the  now  empty 
table,  round  which  the  peasants  had  been  gathered,  and  that  the 
stranger,  the  encourager  and  director  of  the  townspeople,  was 
seated  at  that  his  adherents  had  occupied.  This  man’s  head 
rested  on  his  hand,  while  his  defiant  eyes  closely  and  deliberately 
scanned  the  remaining  company. 

“  It  is  to  witness  such  scenes  as  these  enacted  here  to-night,” 


*■  Hundred  thousand  thanks. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


135 


said  Evelyn,  iloud,  addressing  his  friend,  “  that  I  have  returned 
to  my  native  country  ?” 

“  Alas !  it  is,  Evelyn/’  Edmund  replied  ;  “  and  I  fear  me 
much  what  we  have  seen  is  but  indicative  of  events  even  more 
serious  and  more  painful ” 

We  surmise  that  both  the  young  men  may  have,  at  the  same 
moment,  felt  somewhat  like  a  foreboding  that  their  relations  to 
each  other  might  be  affected  by  the  disruption  of  the  times — by 
the  disseverance  of  parties,  so  evident  from  what  they  had  just 
been,  to  a  degree,  participators  in. 

“Such  encounters  must  take  place,”  said  the  friar,  Father 
O’Haggerty  ;  “  and  they  must  take  place  on  a  wider  field,  and 
more  to  the  purpose,  ere  there  is  peace  to  the  land.  Peace  to 
the  land  can  be  had  only  by  struggling  boldly  for  it.” 

He  was  not  yet  calmed  down  ;  he  spoke  in  a  hasty,  impetuous 
manner,  while  his  flashing  eye  fixed  on  the  stranger,  who  was 
seated  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  apartment. 

“  I  am  of  accord  with  the  friar,”  the  stranger  said  in  reply. 
He  uttered  his  words  slowly  and  emphatically,  while  he  returned 
the  first  speaker’s  hasty  glance  with  an  unflinching  look  of  reso¬ 
lute  defiance. 

“  You  left  but  little  sign  of  quiet  behind  you  in  England,” 
Edmund  M’Donnell  resumed,  again  addressing  Evelyn.  “  They 
tell  me  that  the  king’s  acts  of  absolute  authority  are  rousing  his 
English  subjects  against  him.” 

“  And  justly  rousing  the  people  of  England,”  the  stranger  in¬ 
terrupted,  speaking,  as  before,  slowly,  and,  although  in  a  sub¬ 
dued  tone,  every  word  heard  distinctly  by  all  present. 

“  Seven  reverend  bishops  of  the  Church  imprisoned,”  he  said. 

“Justly  imprisoned,”  expostulated  Father  O’Haggerty,  “as 
the  abettors,  in  the  king’s  teeth,  of  a  foul-mouthed  libeller  and 
preacher  of  sedition — a  preacher  of  treason  against  his  sacred 
majesty.” 

The  stranger  sat  up  more  erectly  than  he  had  done  ;  he  raised 
his  hitherto  subdued  voice  to  a  lofty  pitch  ;  he  waved  his  hand 
before  his  face  with  a  wide  peremptory  sweep,  as  if  he  would 
dash  aside,  authoritatively,  the  interruption  that  had  been  offered 
to  him,  and  he  continued  to  speak  : 

“  A  member  of  parliament  arrested  for  using  his  time-sacred 
and  constitutional  privilege  1  An  attack  on  the  colleges  to  force 
in  Popish  members !  As  if  it  were  the  arbitrary,  domineering 
Grand  Turk  who  sat  on  the  throne  of  Britain  !” 


136 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Papists  were  the  founders  of  the  colleges,  and  not-—” 

Another  impatient  wave  of  the  arm,  and  the  stranger  con¬ 
tinued  : 

“  Papists  placed  on  the  bench  of  justice  ;  Papists  seated  at 
the  council-board  ;  nay,  a  known  Jesuit,  James’s  confidential 
adviser,  there !  A  Popish  nuncio,  forsooth,  undisguisedly  ac¬ 
knowledged,  which  is  treason  by  the  law  1  An  ambassador 
sent  to  confer  with  the  Pope  of  Rome  ;  at  the  very  fountain¬ 
head  of  Papistry  !  The  superstition  of  the  Mass  openly  per¬ 
mitted  1  the  Protestant  charters  throughout  the  kingdom  with¬ 
drawn,  to  open  a  way  for  the  entry  of  Papists — ” 

The  speaker  paused  an  iustant. 

“  All  that  you  have  urged  tends  but  to  show  that  the  king  is 
naturally  desirous  to  give  to  his  Roman  Catholic  subjects  a  share 
of  the  privileges  hitherto  appropriated  exclusively  by  others  of 
a  different  creed.” 

Edmund  M’Donnell  put  forward  his  opinion  somewhat  warmly. 

“Sir,”  replied  the  stranger,  “Papists  are  unfitted  to  be  al¬ 
lowed  the  exercise  of  civil  power — unfitted,  I  say,  they  are  ; 
subservient  slaves,  as  they  be,  to  the  domineering  influence  of 
their  Church.  It  is  not  the  toleration  of  Papists  that  is  sought ; 
it  is  the  domination  of  exclusive  power  in  their  hands  that  is 
contemplated,  and  the  total  exclusion  of  Protestants  !” 

“  I  do  not  think  that  is  a  fair  inference,”  Evelyn  remarked. 

“  There  are  those  who  say,”  Edmund  M’Donnell  spoke,  “  that 
the  opposition  giveu  to  our  king  is  but  a  pretext,  and  that  there 
is  treachery  to  the  sovereign  at  the  bottom.” 

“  They  were  not  Papists  who  brought  his  martyred  father  to 
the  block,”  Father  O’Haggerty  cuttingly  remarked. 

“  The  righteous  taking  of  the  life  of  that  man,  Charles,  they 
never  got  the  grace  to  do,”  interrupted  Oliver. 

The  mettle  of  the  old  Cromwellian  was  aroused  by  the  last 
remark. 

“The  mind  of  James” — the  stranger  addressed  his  renewed 
speech  to  Evelyn,  not  noticing  either  Edmund  M’Donnell  or  the 
friar — “  the  mind  of  James  is  scarce  of  capacity  to  comprehend 
the  tendency  of  his  outrages  against  the  constitution.  But  there 
are  those  about  him — those  priests  and  Jesuits — who  know  how 
to  direct  the  arbitrary  index  of  the  sceptre.” 

“  I  do  believe  as  much,”  replied  Evelyn  ;  “  and — ” 

“  What  is  it  you  believe  ?”  Edmund  questioned,  with  some 

fire. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


137 


The  stranger  supplied  the  answer  to  the  query  :  “  The  rever¬ 
end  friar  yonder  can  satisfy  you,  if  he  will,  young  sir.” 

“  Mayhap  he  can,”  Father  O’ Haggerty  broke  in.  “But  rever¬ 
end  friars  do  not  tell  all  they  know  to  all  that  question  them. 
Mayhap  the  reverend  friar  could  tell  of  the  promptings  of  Bur¬ 
net  at  the  Hague.”  The  stranger  started  as  if  the  thrust  were  a 
home  one.  “  Hah  !  and  mayhap  the  reverend  friar  could  tell  of 
the  incendiary  proceedings  of  George  Walker  through  these 
northern  counties.” 

“  Talk  not  of  men  too  much  above  you  to  warrant  you  in 
meddling  with  their  actions,  irreverent  friar  1  As  to  George 
Walker,  slander  him  not  by  foul  words,  until  you  believe  you 
dare  do  so  to  his  face.” 

“  Is  the  traitor  known  to  you  ?” 

“  I  will  not  answer  yea  or  nay.” 

“  If  he  be  of  your  acquaintance,  bear  to  him  this  greeting  : 
That,  until  I  do  meet  him,  face  to  face,  I  will,  in  the  plainest 
words  I  can  select,  denounce  him  as  the  propagandist  of  treason, 
as  a  traitor  to  his  king  !” 

“  To  his  front  you  would  not  repeat  your  bold  words.”  The 
stranger  stood  up,  no  longer  calm  as  he  had  been.  “If  to  his 
front,  you  so  spoke,  he  would  retort,  and  tell  you  that  your 
tongue  uttered  words  of  falsehood  ;  he  would  tell  you  that  you 
were  knave  and  traitor,  and  not  he  1” 

“  Let  him  but  stand  in  your  place,  and  I  will  reiterate  my 
charge  !” 

Con  M’Donnell  had  been  closely  inspecting  the  stranger  for 
some  time  ;  he  had,  perhaps,  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  underdress. 
He  now  sprang  forward,  threw  aside  the  disguising  horseman’s 
cloak,  and  the  attire  of  a  Protestant  clergyman  was  visible, 
over  which  a  rusty  back  and  breast  piece  were  to  be  seen. 
Scarce  noticing  the  act  of  the  impetuous  Con  M’Donnell,  the 
stranger  advanced  with  deliberate,  resolute  step,  to  the  centre  of 
the  apartment. 

“  Come  forward,  and  stand  before  me,  friar !”  he  said  ;  “  look 
on  ir.e,  and  you  look  on  George  Walker  !” 

Father  O’Haggerty  sprang  to  the  invited  presence. 

“  I  repeat  my  accusation  1”  he  proclaimed  aloud.  “  You, 
George  Walker,  are  a  propagator  of  sedition — a  traitor  to  your 
anointed  king !” 

While  he  spoke,  he  drew  forth  from  its  iron  scabbard  the 
unclerical  appendage  at  his  side. 


138 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


11  Even  though  thou  art  a  prelatic  preacher,  and  although  1 
deuy  your  doctrine,  take  this  blade  that  has  not  been  unfamiliar 
with  malignant  blood.”  Oliver  Whittle  wrenched  his  weapon 
from  its  sheath,  and  thrust  it  into  George  Walker's  hand. 

The  two  clerical  opponents  cut  at  each  other,  and  their  swords 
clashed  ;  but  before  they  could  follow  up  their  hostile  purpose, 
Evelyn  and  Edmund  M’Donnell,  who  had  been  inactive  from 
surprise,  rushed  between  the  combatants. 

“  Forbear !  forbear  1”  cried  the  old  priest  M’Donnell,  ad¬ 
dressing  Father  O’Haggerty.  “Strike  not  with  the  sword, 
man  !  the  sword  is  not  your  weapon  !  You  have  been  com¬ 
missioned  as  a  messenger  of  peace  and  good-will  1  Is  it  thus 
you  discharge  your  mission  ?” 

“  Friar  1”  said  George  Walker,  “  we  shall  meet  again.” 

“  When  I  will  repeat  my  words,  and  make  them  good — ” 

“  Raise  not  your  weapon  !  you  are  under  my  control,  and  I 
forbid  it,”  the  old  priest  again  addressed  the  friar. 

“  There  shall  be  no  such  scandal,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  There  shall  not  be,”  was  Edmund  M’Donnell’s  assent.  “  It 
is  the  Lord’s  quarrel,  and  it  must  go  forward.” 

Oliver  Whittle  vociferated.  Con  M’Donnell  pounced  at  once 
on  the  old  trooper,  whirled  him  to  one  side,  and  threatened  him 
uminouslv. 

“I  will  not  proceed  further  with  the  business  for  the  present,” 
George  Walker  said.  “  But  a  time  will  come.” 

“  Of  a  surety  a  time  will  come  1”  Father  O’Haggerty  replied 

“Then,  friend,  we  will  cross  our  swords  peaceably  for  the 
present.” 

“  Peaceably,  you  say  ?”  questioned  Evelyn  of  the  first  speaker. 

“  Peaceably,  for  the  present,”  he  was  answered. 

He  put  the  same  query  to  Father  O’Haggerty,  and  received  a 
like  reply. 

The  swords  of  the  two  clergymen  crossed. 

“Now  pledge  me,  friar.” 

George  Walker  uttered  his  challenge  measuredly  and  coolly : 
“  I  swear  to  meet  you,  and  soon,  where  we  shall  have  clear 
ground  to  decide  who  is  knave  and  traitor.” 

“  I  swear,”  answered  the  friar. 

“  Blaspheme  not  1”  urged  the  old  priest. 

“  I  swear,”  repeated  Father  O’Haggerty,  “  to  seek  for 
you,  and  soon,  when,  with  Heaven’s  aid,  I  will  uphold  my 
words.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


139 


“  Then,  gDod-night,”  George  Walker  said,  while  he  returned 
his  sword  to  Oliver  Whittle,  and  deliberately  withdrew. 

Seed  from  an  equal  sample,  sown  at  the  same  time  in  a  simi¬ 
lar  soil,  will  simultaneously  spring  up  ;  and  our  friends,  Edmund 
M’Donnell  and  Edward  Evelyn,  as  they  bade  farewell  for  the 
night,  had  some  slight  doubt,  equally  felt,  that  their  hand-grasp 
was  not  as  ardent  as  in  the  morning. 

Edmund  and  Father  O’Haggerty  were  the  last  to  retire  from 
the  room. 

“  I  am  rejoiced  that  I  have  met  you,  Edmund  M’Donnell,” 
said  the  friar. 

“  How,  sir  !  You  know  me,  then  ?” 

“  I  know  you  well,  and  for  some  time  have  been  desirous  to 
commune  with  you.  The  time  is  come,  young  man,  when  every 
true  believer  of  the  holy  Roman  Catholic  faith  should  gird  him¬ 
self,  and  take  the  field  as  the  champion  of  his  religion.  It  is 
imperative  on  such  as  you  to  be  in  the  van — ” 

“  I  do  not  distinctly  comprehend  you,  sir.” 

“  Other  thoughts  have,  as  I  can  learn,  kept  you  from  a  due 
consideration  of  more  momentous  affairs.  Even  so,  you  cannot 
be  ignorant  of  the  hypocritical  and  fierce  opposition  given  by  our 
enemies — ay,  by  the  dire  enemies  of  our  religion,  and  by  the 
traitorous  enemies  of  our  sacred  king — to  us  and  to  him.  To 
us,  because  they  would  exterminate  us  ;  to  him,  because  he  would 
tolerate  us — because  he  would  even  partially  alleviate  the  per¬ 
secution  we  have  so  long  endured  1  Are  you  ignorant,  young 
Edmund  M’Donnell,  that  machinations  are  progressing  to  de¬ 
prive  our  king  of  his  throne  and  of  his  life  ?  That  he  being 
murdered,  as  his  father  was,  we  may  be  once  again  the  victims 
of  a  renewed  persecution,  the  present  trampling  under  foot 
exceeding,  in  rampant  violence,  all  that  has  gone  before.  The 
life  and  throne  of  King  James  assailed,  that  we,  Roman  Catho¬ 
lics,  may  be  devoted  to  utter  destruction — to  annihilation  !” 

“  Reverend  father,  the  violence  and  the  arbitrary  proceedings 
of  King  J ames,  were  they  even  perpetrated  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  equal  rights  to  us,  as  to  his  other  subjects,  almost  justify 
the  excuse  of  opposition  to  his  authority.” 

“  How,  young  sir !  Beware  how  you  use  such  words  as 
these  l” 

“Why  should  I  not  use  them  ?  Are  they  not  the  plain  truth, 
your  reverence  V7 

Edmund  spoke  excitedly;  his  presentimert  was  gaining 


140 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


strength  that  his  prospect  of  happiness  was  jeopardized  by  the 
impending  storm-cloud.  His  selfishness  was,  in  fact,  antagonistic 
to  the  impulse  that  urged  him  to  take  his  place  in  defence  of  his 
creed,  which  he  feared  was  to  be  in  opposition  to  her  he  loved. 
In  this  irritated  humor  he  continued  to  speak  : 

“  In  the  presence  of  those  who  have  just  left  us,  reverend 
sir,  I  did  not  care  to  utter  my  full  thoughts,  seeing  that  they 
are  not  of  our  persuasion.  To  you,  sir,  I  hesitate  not  to  say, 
that  the  king  seems  to  be  infatuated — frantic  in  his  proceedings 
— utterly  unworthy  of  our  support  or  of  our  gratitude !” 

“Young  man  !  young  man  ! — ” 

“  Nay,  reverend  father,  I  will  say  my  mind.  I  have  heard 
King  James’s  arbitrary  conduct  spoken  of  by  men  of  zeal  for 
our  religion,  and  men  of  wisdom  ;  and,  although  young,  I  have 
given  more  consideration  to  the  subject  than  you  may,  belike, 
give  me  credit  for.  His  acts  are  those  of  a  demented  man. 
He  stands  almost  singly  •  even  his  army  has  declared  against 
him  !  With  his  single  arm,  he  seems  to  suppose  that  he  can 
stem  the  torrent  he  has  set  loose.  He  has  levelled  the  sluices 
that  banked  in  the  passions  and  the  headlong  prejudices  of  a 
nation.  He,  and  those  he,  as  I  believe  sincerely,  professes  to 
befriend,  will  be  swept  away  by  the  torrent  he  has  let  loose.” 

“  I  have  in  silence  heard  you  speaking  treason  ;  enouncing 
doctrines  befitting  the  exterminators  of  your  faith,  but  not  to 
be  tolerated  as  coming  from  your  lips.  But,  in  charity,  I  make 
excuses  for  your  youth  ;  the  more  so,  because  I  am  not  igno¬ 
rant  that  you  are  biased  by  a  carnal  devotion,  which  makes  you 
heedless  of  the  interests  of  your  religion,  or  the  claims  of  your 
country.” 

“  I  request  an  explanation,”  Edmund  said,  with  a  haughty 
Hush. 

“  Are  not  your  attachments,  and  with  your  attachments  your 
duty  to  your  king  and  country,  bestowed  on  a  scoffer  against 
your  faith,  and  an  enemy  of  your  rightful  monarch  ?” 

“  Part  of  your  query,  reverend  sir,  I  will  answer  with  a  yea. 
I  do  love — and,  with  Heaven’s  benison,  I  will  wed — a  lady  worthy 
of  my  love — my  good  father  and  my  own  pastor  consenting  to 
the  nuptials.  Your  inference  I  deny.  Nor  does  it  appear  to 
me  that  you  are  privileged  to  busy  yourself  with  my  private 
concerns,  in  no  way  germain  to  the  topics  we  have  discoursed 
on.” 

“  Rude  boy  !  your  words  are  offensive  1  fit  recompense  for  my 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


141 


anxiety  to  serve  you  !  Attend  to  me,  notwithstanding !  I  in¬ 
terdict  your  espousal  with  one  who  will  influence  you  to — ” 

“  Hold  you  there,  reverend  father  !  Proclaiming  myself  a  devo¬ 
ted  adherent  to  my  creed” — he  looked  upward,  and  marked  his 
forehead  with  the  symbol  of  the  cross — “  there  shall  be  no  inter¬ 
ference  by  you,  or  by  any  other,  in  the  disposal  of  my  affections  !” 

“  For  the  gratification  of  your  carnal  wishes,  will  you  enter 
into  an  alliance  of  kindred  with  your  banded  enemies — the  sworn 
enemies  of  the  Church  to  which  you  profess  membership  ?  Will 
you  take  to  your  bosom  the  sister  of  one  of  those  engaged  in 
active  preparation  to  dethrone,  and,  I  believe  me,  to  slay  your 
sovereign — at  the  same  time  that  they  shed  the  blood  of  your 
kith  and  kin — of  all  who  cling  to  the  faith  of  their  fathers  ?” 

“  I  reject  the  belief,”  interrupted  Edmund  M’Donnell,  “  that 
a  project  to  dethrone  the  king  is  entertained  :  idle  and  vulgar 
rumor  this  is,  propagated  by  those  whose  angle  is  for  troubled 
waters.  As  to  the  possibility  of  my  friend,  Edward  Evelyn, 
having  knowledge  of  the  one  intent  or  the  other — had  any  but 
a  clergyman  so  dared  to  insinuate,  he  should  account  to  me  for 
it  on  the  spot  1” 

“  If,  on  the  morrow,  you  should  learn  that  the  friend  you  so 
uphold  is  pledged  to  support  a  contemplated  usurpation — the 
pledge  given  to  that  dire  incendiary,  George  Walker,  whose 
spirit  and  whose  views  you  have  this  night  seen  and  heard — ” 

“  I  can  only  answer — Impossible  !” 

“  But,  were  this  found  to  be  the  truth  ?” 

“  Then,”  answered  Edmund,  after  an  agitated  pause,  “  I  would 
regard  him  as  a  traitor  to  his  friend.” 

“  Could  he  be  your  friend  following  the  discovery  ?” 

Quick  as  thought,  and  thought  is  instantaneous,  Edmund  un¬ 
derstood  that  the  suppositious  case  put  to  him  involved  decep¬ 
tion  towards  himself,  by  Evelyn,  and  at  the  same  time  treachery 
to  his  sister.  It  was  a  bitter  conviction. 

“  The  devil  my  friend  as  soon  !”  he  exclaimed,  impetuously. 
u  But  this  is  no  more  than  fancy — an  unsubstantial  dream !” 

“You  may  so  call  it.  But  suppose,  in  addition,  that  this 
friend  had  a  sister,  who  was  in  his  confidence  ?  Nay,  you  now 
challenge  me  with  your  looks  too  boldly,  youth  !  We  shall  have 
no  further  question  on  this  point.  When  you  see  your  king — ” 

“  Should  I  see  him  the  victim  of  his  own  folly,  I  will  not  draw 
sword  in  his  cause  ” 

"  In  whose  cause,  then,  will  you  unsheath  it  ?” 


142 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Edmund  was  silent. 

“ 1  expected  this  wavering  on  a  point  you  have  not  considered 
closely.  Look  at  the  case  boldly  and  manfully,  and  as  a  Chris¬ 
tian  of  the  old  faith.  Your  sword  cannot  remain  in  dastardly 
repose  within  its  scabbard,  when  every  gallant  blade  is  out  a?d 
doing — while  the  sword  of  friends  and  foes  are  flashing  !” 

“  Oh  1”  cried  the  young  man,  much  agitated,  “  must  it,  indeed, 
come  to  this  ?  Must  there  be  no  ‘  peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good¬ 
will  V  Why  will  the  name  of  religion  be  still  profaned  as  the 
encourager  of  deadly  hatred  ?” 

He  looked  despondingly  at  Father  O’Haggerty,  as  the  appre¬ 
hension  of  danger  to  his  affections  flashed  afresh  before  his  men¬ 
tal  vision. 

“  Create  systems  to  your  fancy.  But  what  are  you  to  do  ?” 

“This,  I  see,  I  must  do.  In  defence  of  a  violated  throne — 
of  a  sovereign  wronged  and  outraged — if  this  should  be — I— -. 
In  fact,  it  is  evident — it  is  inevitable — that  we,  Irish  Catholics, 
must  act  as  we  have  before  acted,  and  suffer  as  we  have  ever 
suffered,  in  a  contest  not  of  our  own  making.  I  see  it  must  be 
so.  I  see  that  our  ill-fated  land  will  be  once  again  selected  as 
the  arena  for  a  struggle  between  an  English  monarch  and  his 
English  subjects.  In  the  end,  whichever  is  uppermost,  or  which¬ 
ever  is  prostrate,  we  shall  have  to  bear  the  hardest  blows.  And, 
finally,  we  shall  be  the  sufferers,  unthanked  by  either.” 

“  I  interpret  your  words  to  mean  that  you  will  be  in  readi¬ 
ness  for  the  day  of  struggle,  when,  Heaven  to  protect  its  own, 
you  will  be  at  the  head  of  your  hardy  people,  in  your  own  native 
glen,  and  lead  them  forth,  at  the  command  of  your  king,  and  at 
the  call  of  your  religion.” 

“  I  see  no  choice.  To  fight,  even  though  he  has  erred,  for 
the  king  who  would  give  me  religious  freedom,  against  those  who 
make  war  against  that  rightful  king,  that  they  may  keep  me 
shackled.  What  else  is  left  for  me  to  do  ?  Basely  neutral  I 
cannot  remain  ;  I  must  even  whirl  with  the  hurricane.  But  is 
the  day  surely  to  come?” 

“  Surely  to  come,  as  those  who  best  know  have  told  me.  It 
is  a  question,  though,  whether  we  await  the  time  or  whether  we 
create  it — whether  we  pause  too  long,  until  the  hand  of  extermi 
nation  is  striking  at  us,  our  king  inactive  on  our  behalf,  or  para 
lyzed  in  his  effort — whether  we  arouse  ourselves  and  anticipate 
the  deadly  onslaught  of  our  enemies,  and,  at  the  same  time,  give 
protection  to  a  monarch  and  security  to  ourselves.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


143 


Edmund  paused  at  this  new  version  of  the  question. 

“  You  mean  a  rising  here  in  Ireland,  of  our  own  counsel,  and 
without  the  king’s  command  ?” 

“  It  may  be  so — nay,  it  is  so — that  wishing  well  to  say  the 
word,  he  dares  not  utter  it  openly.  Where  king  and  religion 
are  both  in  imminent  peril,  it  seems  no  more  than  the  duty  o» 
ioyal  subjects,  and  children  of  the  faith,  to  act,  even  of  their 
own  accord,  for  the  protection  of  both.” 

“  A  weak  thought,  sir  ;  and,  in  my  esteem,  not  counselled  in 
either  country  by  the  men  of  weight,  on  whose  advice  his  majes- 
cy  relies.” 

Father  O’Haggerty  curbed  the  words  he  was  about  to  utter. 

“  Read  this,”  he  said,  “  and  then  seek  the  counsel  of  your 
pillow.  I  wish  you  a  good  night’s  rest.” 

He  withdrew  as  soon  as  he  had  placed  a  parchment  in  Ed¬ 
mund’s  hands. 

It  was  a  commission,  issued  in  Tyrconnel’s  name,  appointing 
Edmund  M’Donnell  an  officer,  under  the  earl  of  Antrim,  to 
command  a  company  of  men,  to  be  raised  in  his  native  district, 
for  the  newly  ordered  levy  of  Irish  soldiers.  His  first  feeling 
on  thus  finding  himself  raised  to  a  situation  of  trust  and  import¬ 
ance  was  pleasure  and  gratified  vanity  ;  his  next,  doubt  and  ill- 
omen  of  the  result.  For  some  time  he  sat  almost  in  darkness, 
following  a  train  of  sad  anticipations  of  his  own  future  pros¬ 
pects  and  those  of  his  country.  His  love  for  Esther  Evelyn, 
and  Father  O’Haggerty’s  prophecy  with  regard  to  her  brother, 
formed  an  impressive  portion  of  these  thoughts.  He  retired  to 
rest  sadder  than  he  had  ever  before  been  while  he  pressed  his 
oightly  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Whether  or  no  O’Haggerty  had  private  intelligence  of  what 
Walker  intended  to  effect  with  Evelyn,  or  that  he  only  spoke  of, 
as  certain,  what  his  insight  into  human  probabilities  led  him  to 
conjecture,  it  is  undeniable  that  he  shot  very  near  the  mark. 

Evelyn  lay  down  to  sleep  in  an  indifferent  bed,  and  in  a  con¬ 
fined,  ill-contrived  room,  of  which  the  door  could  not,  by  any 
effort  or  ingenuity  on  his  part,  be  secured.  His  mind  was  vexed 


144 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


with  the  occurrences  and  discussions  of  the  evening,  his  spirits 
consequently  depressed  and  gloomy.  After  lying  restless  for 
some  time  he  fell  into  a  disturbed  sleep,  which  the  tone  of  his 
waking  thoughts  haunted  with  extravagant  dreams.  He  dreamt 
that  he  was  married  to  Eva  ;  that  he  had  entered  the  bridal 
chamber,  and  just  pressed  the  bridal  couch,  when  a  skein  was 
plunged  into  his  breast.  For  a  moment  he  felt  the  agonies  or 
mortal  pain,  and  lay,  choked  with  suffering,  unable  to  cry  out 
then  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  pierced  his  ears,  and  a  figure, 
vaguely  like  his  dead  father,  stood  by  his  bedside,  shaking  his 
arm,  and  calling  on  him  to  rouse  up.  He  awoke  in  terror,  to 
see  a  person  really  standing  over  him,  and  holding  a  feeble  lamp 
in  one  hand,  while  the  other  rested  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked 
again,  in  some  alarm,  and  recognized  the  pale,  grave,  and  ex¬ 
pressive  features  of  Walker.  In  the  creaking  of  the  crazy 
door,  yet  in  motion  from  that  person’s  entrance,  he  at  the  same 
time  caught  the  sound  which,  distorted  by  his  sleeping  sense, 
had  conveyed  to  the  cheated  mind  the  idea  of  a  trumpet. 

“  Pardon  me  this  intrusion,”  Walker  said.  “  I  leave  the 
house  very  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  as  I  am  deputed  to 
hold  with  you  some  discourse  of  an  important  nature,  I  could 
not  sleep  till  we  had  entered  upon  it.  I  was  your  father’s 
friend.  You  may  have  heard  him  speak  of  George  Walker,  rec¬ 
tor  of  Donoughmore  ?” 

“  I  have,  sir,  often,”  Evelyn  replied. 

“  In  early  life,  before  my  translation  to  that  parish,  so  far  re¬ 
moved  from  his  residence,  we  were  much  together.  Ere  you 
could  know  my  face,  I  have  dauced  you  on  my  knee,  and  joined 
in  your  father’s  prayer  for  your  worldly  and  eternal  welfare.  At 
my  hands,  too,  you  received  second  life  in  the  waters  of  baptism. 
W e  meet  not,  then,  as  utter  strangers  to  each  other  ;  nor  yet  as 
men  quite  indifferent  to  each  other’s  interests  and  happiness,  or  to 
the  words  we  may  interchange  together.” 

Evelyn  fitly,  if  not  warmly,  assented. 

“I  will  sit,  therefore,  by  your  bedside  and  tell  my  mission. 
You  are  prayed,  by  those  of  your  country  and  religion,  who  have 
a  true  interest  for  both,  to  declare  whether  or  no  you  will  join 
them  in  the  coming  endeavor  for  life  and  faith.” 

“Pray,  speak  plainer,  Mr.  Walker.” 

“You  know  that  the  reign  of  James  draws  to  a  close.” 

“I  kuow  not  so,  but  I  have  heard  such  things  rumored  in 
my  passage  through  England,  and  hoped  from  my  heart  it  was 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


145 


but  idle  rumor.  Why  should  the  reign  of  James  draw  to  a 
close  ?” 

“That,  at  least,  you  know.  He  has  forfeited  his  crown  by 
attacking  the  constitution.” 

“  By  attacking  it  in  what  manner  ?” 

“Variously.  But  especially  in  his  effort  to  admit  Papists 
into  public  situations  of  trust,  rank,  and  influence.  A  measure 
to  which  the  very  nature  of  the  constitution  is  opposed.” 

“  That  I  cannot  understand,”  the  young  man  said,  with  gen¬ 
erous  warmth.  “  If  by  the  constitution  be  meant  the  rights  of 
the  people,  obtained  at  different  times,  from  different  sovereigns, 
I  must,  as  you  have  before  heard  me  say,  remember  that  they 
were  actually  so  obtained  by  Papists,  and  precisely  to  the  extent 
in  which  we  now  enjoy  them.  Ere  Catholic  England  became 
Protestant  England,  they  existed.  And  from  the  reign  of  the 
first  sovereign,  nominally  Protestant,  Henry  VIII.,  down  to  the 
last,  Charles  II.,  nothing — nothing  in  matter  has  been  added  to 
them.  Since,  therefore,  the  constitution  has  been  formed  by 
Papists,  how,  in  reasoning  or  sense,  can  its  nature  be  anti-Papist  ? 
Again,  if  James  does  not  seek  to  annul  any  one  of  the  rights 
that  make  it  what  it  is — a  matter  allowed  on  all  hands — but 
simply  seeks  to  admit  to  an  enjoyment  of  them,  in  common  with 
men  of  every  sect,  the  persons  whose  ancestors  have  really  set 
them  up,  in  what  manner  can  he  be  said  to  attack  ‘the  consti¬ 
tution?’  What,  after  all,  is  the  meaning  of  this  generally 
adopted  phrase  ?  Alas !  alas  !  Mr.  Walker,”  Evelyn  added,  with 
curling  lip,  “  I  fear  it  has  been  only  invented  by  a  few  men,  as  a 
watchword,  and  caught  up  and  continued  by  the  many,  without 
thought  or  analysis,  until,  from  every-day  use,  it  means  what  they 
please,  and  what  both  wish.” 

“We  may  argue  as  we  can.  When  wiser  people  than  we 
have  decided  upon  the  question,  it  is  only  so  much  misspent 
breath.  We  must  swim  with  the  current  of  the  times  :  fools 
only  would  cross  or  breast  it,  and  depend  for  safety  on  the  catch- 
ng  at  straws.  When  the  great  deliverer  once  lands — ” 

“How,  Mr.  Walker  !  do  you  calculate  so  surely  on  events? 
fs  it  to  be,  indeed,  and  so  sudden  ?” 

“  Have  I,  at  least,  your  promise  of  honorable  secrecy  ?” 

“  The  very  recollections  under  which  we  meet,  should  give  you 
that  assurance,  sir.” 

“Then  know  that  I  speak  on  the  information  of  one  who, 
counselled  and  aided  by  the  Lord,  has  been  the  great  agent  and 

7 


146 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


secret  light  of  the  glorious  change  we  all  hope  for.  It  needs  but 
your  declaration  in  our  cause,  to  supply  you  with  the  advices  he 
has  vouchsafed  from  time  to  time  to  me.” 

“  So  certain,  truly  1”  Evelyn  exclaimed,  much  agitated.  “  So 
very  sudden!  The  infatuated  king  already  encompassed  with 
destruction  !  No  pause  for  him — no  time  allowed  for  a  heated 
temper  to  cool — a  warped  judgment  to  become  righted !  No 
endeavor  to  conciliate — to  advance  half-way — to  reason  with 
him — to  correct  him  !  No  pity  for  the  errors  of  the  son  of 
many  kings ! — ” 

“  Rather  say,  no  time  allowed  for  the  completion  of  the  pro¬ 
jects  which  aim  at  our  destruction.” 

“No  forbearance  towards  a  king  of  known  and  admitted  tal¬ 
ents  and  spirit !  Who,  when  duke  of  York,  advanced  the  char¬ 
acter  of  the  British  navy  higher  than  it  had  ever  stood  !  Who, 
at  an  earlier  age,  commanded  the  praises  of  the  two  greatest 
generals  of  his  time,  Turenne  and  Conde  !  Who  has  fought  for 
England  in  forty  sea-fights,  and  in  his  very  last  encounter  with 
the  Dutchman,  De  Ruyter,  achieved  her  a  splendid  victory  ! 
No  allowance — no  gratitude — no  mercy  for  him  !  Has  it  ever 
been  questioned  that,  above  all  his  family,  he  entertained  a  high 
and  jealous  notion  of  the  interests  and  glory  of  his  people  and 
his  nation  ?”  The  youth  spoke  with  a  warmth  not  altogether 
without  effect  on  his  companion. 

“  Never,  I  grant  you,  until  this  late  attempt  to  bully  the  one 
and  degrade  the  other,”  he  admitted,  after  a  pause. 

“  But  how  ?  Has  he  not  repeatedly  assured  Protestants  that 
while  he  did  only  justice  to  his  own  religion,  he  should  never  seek 
to  injure  or  weigh  down  theirs  ?  And,  during  his  whole  life, 
have  not  men  of  all  sects  regarded  him  as  an  inviolable  observer 
of  his  word  ?” 

“Yes,  I  grant  you  again.  Until  at  last  he  broke  it.” 

“  How  ?  how  ?” 

“  By  the  very  act  we  have  so  often  canvassed.  By  his  assum¬ 
ing  the  absolute  power  of  dispensing  with  the  tests,  and  of  sus¬ 
pending  the  penal  statutes.” 

“Again  and  again  I  deny,  passing  altogether  the  separate 
question  of  assumed  power,  that  this  amounts  to  a  breach  of  his 
word — to  an  infringement  on  his  pledge  to  Protestants  that  he 
would  uniformly  protect  them.  Unless,  indeed,  protection  of 
them  essentially  implies  persecution  of  others.  An  unreasonable, 
unchristian,  and  monstrous  hypothesis.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


147 


“The  bigotry  of  James,”  Walker  said,  with  a  frown,  “is 
known  to  extend  further  than  equal  privileges  for  his  own  idol¬ 
atrous  sect.” 

“  How  known  ?  By  what  he  does  at  present  ?  The  question 
has  been  considered.  By  what  he  has  heretofore  done  ?  Let  us 
see.  It  was  not  bigotry  to  allow,  in  deference  to  the  prejudices  of 
his  English  people,  his  two  daughters,  then  his  only  children — ” 

“  Ay,  then”  interrupted  Walker,  with  a  bitter  sneer. 

“  To  allow  them  to  be  educated  in  strict  Protestantism.  It 
was  not  bigotry  to  give  the  elder  of  them,  the  Princess  Mary, 
heiress  apparent  to  the  crown,  to  the  Protestant  prince,  William 
— or  the  second,  Anne,  to  another  Protestant  prince,  George  of 
Denmark.  It  was  not  bigotry  to  pass  by,  after  he  became  sov¬ 
ereign  of  England,  all  those  who  had  been  distinguished  as  the 
plotters  or  agents  of  the  Popish  Plot,  contenting  himself  with 
making  one  sole  example  of  public  justice,  in  the  person  of  its 
most  infamous  propagator,  Oates — while  even  to  that  hideous 
monster  life  was  spared.  It  was  not  bigotry  to  spare,  in  life  and 
property,  the  very  men  who,  by  pressing  the  bill  of  exclusion, 
had  labored  to  disinherit  him,  and  whose  efforts  sent  him  an 
exile  from  his  land  and  his  people.  This  was  not  bigotry.  How, 
then,  shall  we  prove  the  vulgar  clamor  ?  He  has  not  been,  he 
is  not  bigoted  in  his  measures  ;  but  ‘  ’tis  known ’  he  will  be. 
Who  has  made  it  known  ?  In  one  word,  Mr.  Walker,  how, 
from  any  thing  the  unfortunate  monarch  has  attempted,  from 
even  the  wildest  assertion  of  his  privilege,  how  has  he  injured — 
yourself,  for  instance  ?  During  nearly  five  years  that  he  has  sat 
on  the  throne  of  his  fathers,  have  your  rights,  as  a  Protestant, 
been  abridged,  or  your  ministry,  as  a  Protestant  clergyman,  in¬ 
terrupted  ?” 

“  I  answer  you  calmly — yes.  Think  you  it  is  no  interruption 
of  my  ministry  to  encounter,  since  the  beginning  of  this  ungodly 
reign,  such  disturbers  as  the  dangerous  man  we  sat  with  to-night, 
left  free  to  preach  and  teach,  where  before  they  durst  not  raise 
their  voices  in  the  land  ?  Is  it  no  hindrance  to  my  ministry,  and 
to  the  spreading  and  welfare  of  the  religion  whose  minister  I  am, 
to  see  mass-houses  open,  where,  in  the  former  reign,  there  was 
waste  and  goodly  silence  ?  To  meet,  in  every  corner  of  Ire¬ 
land,  a  tolerated  priest,  where  before  such  scum  and  vermin 
durst  not  show  their  heads  ?  To  see  Papist  prelates  received  at 
court,  where  before  it  was  treason,  by  the  law,  but  to  sound 
their  names  ?” 


148 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“No,  Mr.  Walker  ;  I  cannot  think  that  this  is,  necessarily, 
any  hindrance  to  your  ministry,  or  to  our  common  religion 
Leaving  out  of  the  question  the  Friar  O’Haggerty,  as  a  kind  of 
man  who  can  well  be  spared  on  both  sides,  you  would  not  surely 
mean  to  say  that  the  truth  you  preach  depends,  for  its  effects, 
on  the  absence  or  silence  of  the  error  it  opposes  ?  By  contrast 
with  error  should  the  truth  shine  more  brightly.  Did  the  uni¬ 
versal  prevalence  of  error,  when  religion  was  first  preached,  re¬ 
tard  its  way  by  the  side  of  Him  who  led  it  triumphant,  not  in  a 
battle-chariot,  or  at  the  point  of  the  sword,  but  wreathed  in  the 
chaplet  of  peace,  and  scattering  the  perfumes  of  persuasion  ? 
Are  you  irritated,  then,  as  a  worldly  man,  to  see  the  degraded 
arise,  the  trampled  walk  upright,  the  persecuted  pitied,  fellow- 
creatures  vindicated  ?  Is  it,”  Evelyn  asked,  with  a  disdainful 
smile,  “  from  the  weaker  impulse  of  our  nature  you  talk  so  bit¬ 
terly  of  tolerated  priests  and  Popish  prelates  at  court  ?  Are 
those  who  differ  from  you  1  scum  and  vermin/  merely  because 
they  do  so  ?  Difference  does  not  imply  inferiority.  Do  you 
hate  them  because  you  have  tried,  and  are  trying,  to  crush 
them  beneath  your  foot  ?  That  may  be  the  true  reason,  I  sus¬ 
pect.  We  do  not,  alas !  readily  forgive  men  for  having  injured 
them.” 

11  You  do  not  speak  as  a  good  Protestant,”  Walker  said,  with 
a  mighty  effort  to  restrain  his  wrath. 

“  If  Protestantism  mean  monopoly — if  good  Protestantism  mean 
bad  Christianity — I  do  not  ;  yet  will  I  prove  myself  an  orthodox 
member  of  the  reformed  Christian  faith,  and  hold  these  senti¬ 
ments  at  the  same  time.  I  own,  however,  they  somewhat  differ 
from  the  superfluity  of  sectarian  zeal  taught  me  in  my  childhood. 
But  travel,  Mr.  Walker,  and  conversing  with  men  of  different 
countries  and  enlarged  minds,  does  much  to  mix  up  reason  and 
charity  with  the  mere  formalities  of  religion.  Another  accident,” 
he  added,  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  Walker,  “  may  have 
lately  helped  to  fix  my  mind  in  its  present  temper.” 

“  May  I  inquire  what  that  was  ?” 

“Nothing  of  import  to  influence  the  opinions  of  any  man  but 
myself.” 

“  Let  me  judge.” 

“  It  would  be  useless,  indeed.  Excuse  me,  sir.” 

“  Youth,”  urged  Walker,  managing  the  introduction  of  this 
delicate  point  better  than  O’Haggerty  had  done  with  Edmund, 
though  he  stood  just  as  little  in  need  of  information — “  I  abjure 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


149 


you  by  the  memory  of  your  good  father,  to  declare  to  me  what 
it  is  that  has  thus  most  sinfully  turned  your  eyes  from  the  steady 
and  true  light,  to  more  than  a  half-following  of  the  dangerous 
meteor  of  Idolatry.  By  the  friendship  of  your  father  and  my¬ 
self,  disguise  not  your  heart  from  me.  I  tremble — I  could  weep 
for  you,  son  of  my  ancient  friend  !  Relieve  at  once  the  anguish 
I  feel  on  your  account  1  You  have  been  listening  to  the  insid¬ 
ious  discourse  of  Jesuits — you  have  entered  the  mass-house,  and 
hearkened  to  their  poisonous  preaching — that  is  it  ?” 

“No,  sir,”  answered  Evelyn,  really  affected  by  the  seeming 
interest  of  his  companion  ;  “fear  not  forme,  there.  I  will  speak 
openly.  Why  should  I  not?  Know,  then,  that  I  have  con¬ 
tracted  myself  to — ” 

“To  a  Papist!”  interrupted  Walker,  in  surprise  and  conster¬ 
nation,  well  feigned. 

“  To  a  Roman  Catholic  lady,  sir.” 

“  Contracted  !”  resumed  the  clergyman.  He  paused,  long 
enough  to  make  the  youth  feel  awkward  and  constrained.  Then 
riveting  his  angular  eyes  on  Evelyn,  and  speaking  very  slowly — 

“You  would  wed  her,  then  ?” 

“  That  question  cannot  surely  mean — would  I  dishonor  myself 
or  her  ?”  Evelyn  cried,  with  angry  vehemence. 

“Lost!  lost!”  Mr.  Walker  went  on;  “lost,  irrecoverably! 
a  goodly  bough  of  the  tree  lopt  off,  and  cast  for  the  burning ! 
Better  hadst  thou  hearkened  to  the  sophistry  of  all  the  smooth 
tongues  of  St.  Orner’s — better  hadst  thou  bent  down  before  the 
idol  in  their  very  mass-house  !  And,  oh  !  what  has  my  old 
friend  escaped  by  his  passage  from  this  life  to  the  glories  which 
his  unblemished  faith  secured  him  in  another  !  What  has  he  es¬ 
caped  that  he  lias  not  here  to-night  to  weep  over  the  disgrace  of 
his  only  son  !” 

“Sir — Mr.  Walker — I  cannot  understand — ” 

“  No,  boy,  you  cannot  1  you  know  them  not !  You  know 
not  that  the  very  motto  of  their  damnable  and  idolatrous  sect 
is  proselytism !  That  by  every  means,  and  by  the  seductions  and 
entanglements  practised  on  you,  above  all  other  means,  they 
labor,  day  after  day,  to  decrease  the  number  of  the  righteous.” 

“  I  must  at  once  say,  sir,  I  have  never  seen  such  attempts  di¬ 
rected  towards  mvself.” 

“  Have  you  not  ?  And  that  is  so  convincing,  is  it  ?  Think 
you  the  old  serpent  goes  to  work  so  lamely  ?  Think  you  they 
would  at  first  let  you  detect  their  aims,  that  so  you  might  be  at 


150 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


once  digusted  and  turned  from  them  forever  ?  No,  you  have  not 
observed  their  attempts.  Neither  does  age  observe  its  gradual 
stooping  to  decrepitude,  nor  does  the  eye  detect  the  encroach  of 
wrinkles  on  the  face.  But  ask  your  heart — call  to  mind  the  un¬ 
sound  doctrines  you  have  this  night  uttered,  and  answer  me,  now 
that  I  become  your  standard  and  your  mirror — hath  not  your 
loul  shrunk  from  its  former  uprightness  of  stature,  and  its  face 
become  haggard  with  wrinkles  ?  And  if  so  soon  this  premature 
decay  is  visible,  what  must  you  not  fear  for  yourself  when — oh  ! 
I  have  no  patience  to  speak  it  !  For  I — I  know  them  well  ! 
Through  a  long  life  of  zealous  ministry,  I  know  them  well !  I 
tell  you,  Robert  Evelyn,  that  you  cannot  imagine  the  refined  arts 
with  which  they  ensnare.  To  make  proselytes  is  their  worldly, 
and  according  to  their  superstitious  cant,  their  spiritual  object. 
Ruled  as  they  are  by  their  priests,  their  wanton  women — be 
patient,  boy  !  never  lose  sight  of  it.  Hence  is  their  effort,  every 
day,  to  secure  a  Protestant  husband,  that  they  may  be  raised 
from  discontent  and  obscurity  to  rank  and  importance  in  the 
land,  and  that  they  may  add,  at  once,  a  respectable  name  to 
Papistry  in  this  world,  and,  by  virtue  of  the  act,  insure  for  them¬ 
selves  a  seat  in  the  next.  These,  are  the  promptings  given — the 
promises  held  out  by  their  priests.  Ask  the  woman  who  has 
undone  you,  and  let  her  answer  whether  or  no  she  has  not  been 
so  tutored,  and  does  not  so  purpose  to  practise  on  you.” 

“I  shall  certainly  never  ask  a  question,  Mr.  Walker,”  the 
boy  cried,  indignantly,  “  so  derogatory  to  my  confidence  in  the 
woman  I  would  make  my  wife,  and  to  her  claims  on  that  confi¬ 
dence.” 

“Would  you  stoop,  too,  to  wive  with  one  of  the  degraded  of 
the  land?  Even  with  your  own  bondswoman?  Nay,”  he  con¬ 
tinued  rapidly,  stopping  Evelyn’s  attempt  to  speak,  “  let  me  ask 
you,  if  my  worst  fears  are  true  ?  I  have  met  you  here  in  the 
company  of  one  of  the  most  noted  enemies — though  a  stripling, 
like  yourself — of  the  faith  in  Ireland.  He  has  a  sister  •  can  it 
be  that  woman  ?” 

*'  Sir,”  replied  Evelyn,  distantly,  “  the  lady  is  Miss  M’Donnell, 
the  daughter  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family,  though  lately 
reduced  by  oppression — ” 

“  By  the  strong  and  righteous  arm  of  the  law,  to  beggary  ! 

I  know  them  well.  Rebels  they  have  been.  Beggars  they  are. 
And  now,  again,  the  foremost,  under  guidance  of  that  old,  in¬ 
veterate  plotter,  Antrim,  to  head  the  very  massacre  which 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  151 

surely  threatens  us  all.  That  so,  by  rebellion  and  blood,  they 
may  regain  what  they  have  so  justly  forfeited !” 

“  Absurdity,  sir  !  Absurdity  and  bigotry  !” 

“  Misguided  young  man  !  Use  not — dare  not  to  use  to  me  these 
ill-weighed  words.  I  can  prove  to  you  what  I  aver — I  can 
prove,  on  the  testimony  of  all  the  Protestant  gentlemen  of  the 
north — their  well-grounded  fears  and  wise  preparations  forming 
that  testimony — that  we  are  this  moment  surrounded  by  a  plot 
to  cut  our  throats  as  we  sleep  in  our  beds  1  That  the  recent 
levy  of  a  new  and  overpowering  army  of  Papists  is  made  in  such 
a  view,  while  every  kerne  in  Ireland  goes  armed,  at  the  advice 
of  their  priests,  also  waiting  the  yet  unknown  day.  You  have 
noticed  their  arming  ?” 

“  That,  indeed,  I  have  witnessed  with  surprise,  sir,”  Evelyn 
unwillingly  admitted. 

“  I  cry  to  you,  therefore,  beware  !  Look  how  you  form  a  con¬ 
nection  which  must  be  eutered  into  with  you,  either  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  of  involving  you,  as  a  proselyte,  in  the  general  conspiracy, 
or  else — how  shall  I  utter  it !  or  else,  should  you  prove  obsti¬ 
nate,  of  securing  you  its  easy  victim.  Look  to  yourself,  I  say  1 
Look  to  the  natural  results  in  their  great  rising  !  When  to  gain 
you  over,  they  must  necessarily  impart  some  of  their  secrets  ; 
when  you,  as  a  Protestant,  not  entirely  fallen,  will  gainsay  them 
— blind  and  unthinking  youth  !  can  you  doubt  the  result  ?  Can 
yon  doubt  that  their  Irish  skeins  will  be  at  your  throat  in  a 
moment,  to  guard  their  own  projects  by  effectually  silencing 
you  ?” 

“  If,  indeed,  there  is  such  strong  assurance  of  this  inhuman 
conspiracy,  sir,”  Evelyn  began,  his  youthful  credulity  at  last 
something  wrought  upon — 

“If,”  interrupted  Mr.  Walker.  “Look  at  this  paper,  ad¬ 
dressed  to  you,  and  which  forms  the  business  of  our  present  con¬ 
ference.  See  it  signed  by  every  Protestant  name  around  you, 
known  as  respectable.  See  that,  setting  out  with  a  statement  of 
their  apprehensions  of  a  Popish  massacre,  they  proceed  to  advise 
you  of  their  plan  of  a  counter-association,  for  the  guarding  of 
their  lives  and  properties,  and  then  solicit  you,  as  a  man  of  rank 
and  place  in  the  country,  to  join  them  in  their  endeavor.  Can 
you,  as  a  Protestant  gentleman — as  the  worthy  son  of  my  old 
friend,  refuse  ?” 

“  I  shall  not  refuse,  Mr.  Walker,  to  unite  in  any  precaution 
which,  supposing  the  actual  existence  of  a  design  against  us, 


152 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


such  as  you  seem  to  be  so  sure  of,  the  first  principle  of  natow 
makes  imperative.  For  the  rest,  I  am  guided  by  my  own  judg¬ 
ment.” 

“  I  require  no  further  resolve  at  present.  But,  here,”  pro¬ 
ducing  pen  and  ink,  “  write  your  assent  to  this  invitation  at  the 
bottom  of  the  paper.”  Evelyn,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  did 
so.  “  Keep  the  document  now  for  your  own  satisfaction,  and, 
perhaps,  as  a  salutary  memento.  And  favor  me  with  a  copy  of 
your  answer,  to  be  presented,  as  common  courtesy  requires,  to 
those  who  have  addressed  you.” 

Evelyn  also  complied  with  this  apparently  reasonable  request. 
“  But,  Mr.  Walker,”  he  resumed,  “  forget  not  that  I  reserve  to 
myself  the  right  of  judging  when  I  shall  be  truly  called  on  to  ful¬ 
fil  this  engagement.” 

“  I  said  before,  we  must  swim  with  the  current  of  the  times. 
It  may  be  that,  until  the  deliverer  of  England  lands  on  her 
shores,  the  cruel  Papists  of  this  country  will  not  rise  up  against 
us.  If  at  that  time  they  do  so,  however,  King  James  must,  of 
course,  be  their  watchword,  and  William,  Prince  of  Orange, 
the  professed  object  of  their  bloody  warfare.  While  on  us  they 
really  vent  their  hereditary  hatred  and  sectarian  fury.” 

“  Am  I  to  infer,  sir,  that,  under  such  circumstances,  my  engag¬ 
ing  in  this  association  is  to  amount  to  open  warfare  against  King 
James,  as  well  as  protection  of  my  own  life  and  property  ?” 

“I  have  not  said  that  the  visit  of  William  is  for  the  purpose 
of  dethroning  James.  Listen  to  me.  You  are  now  worthy  of 
the  confidence  I  before  alluded  to,  and  you  shall  have  it.  I 
spoke  of  a  great  man,  a  light  of  the  reformed  faith,  and  a  zeal¬ 
ous  laborer  for  our  blessed  constitution,  who  during  some  time 
has  condescended  to  regard  me  as  an  available  fellow-servant  in 
the  righteous  cause,  and  so  advised  me,  authentically,  of  the 
progress  of  events.” 

“  You  mean  Dr.  Burnet,  sir,  who,  since  the  commencement  of 
the  present  reign,  has  been  on  the  Continent,  mostly  at  Wil¬ 
liam's  court?” 

“  The  same.  On  his  information,  joined  to  my  own  notice  of 
the  times,  I  proceed  to  lay  this  matter  fully  before  you.  Wil¬ 
liam  has,  since  his  youth,  been  well  regarded  by  England,  because, 
since  his  youth,  it  has  been  his  unceasing  policy  to  check  the 
power  and  dim  the  eclat  of  her  great  rival,  France,  by  arraying 
against  that  haughty  and  innovating  nation  the  Emperor,  Spain, 
his  own  and  the  neighboring  States,  and,  if  possible,  Great  Britain.'1 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


153 


“And  I  suspect,  Mr.  Walker,  that  as  one  of  the  best  means 
of  completing  the  coalition,  in  the  last-named  instance,  it  has 
rather  been  his  policy,  too,  from  an  early  age,  to  fix  his  eye  on 
no  less  an  object  than  the  crown  of  Great  Britain.  I  believe  his 
early  marriage,  during  Charles’s  lifetime,  with  the  heiress  appa¬ 
rent,  might  have  happened  in  this  view.  It  is  certain  that  the 
only  piece  of  seeming  enthusiasm  that  even  in  his  frigid  and  sul¬ 
len  youth  he  exhibited,  was  when  Sir  William  Temple  came, 
after  a  long  period  of  uncertainty,  to  communicate  the  final 
assent  of  Charles,  and  the  then  duke,  to  his  marriage  with  the 
Lady  Mary.  So  cold  a  man  could  never  feel  on  the  securing  of 
a  wife — a  wife,  too,  that  after-events  proved  him  to  be,  to  say 
the  least,  indifferent  to — the  triumph  and  exultation  on  that 
occasion  displayed.  You,  sir,  cannot  be  ignorant  of  the  incident 
to  which  I  refer.  How,  starting  up,  he  caught  the  minister  in 
his  arms,  and  vowed  that  he  had  made  him  the  happiest 
man  in  the  world.  No;  William’s  joy  at  the  tidings  was 
that  of  an  ambitious  and  profound  politician,  at  the  almost 
unexpected  achieving  of  a  deep-laid  project.”  The  young  man 
spoke  with  a  degree  of  contemptuous  indignation  natural  to 
his  age  and  character,  but  chafing  in  the  extreme  to  the  lis¬ 
tener. 

“Mayhap,”  resumed  Walker,  with  cool  deliberation,  “I,  too, 
suspect  that  the  Lord  so  disposed  his  heart,  even  at  that  early 
period,  for  our  good  and  deliverance.  About  the  time  that  the 
exclusion  bill  was  moved  in  Charles’s  parliament  against  the 
duke,  his  views  were  even  less  doubtfully  indicated  to  the  godly 
Burnet.  Some  time  after  that  event,  as  my  memory  serves,  the 
great  doctor  advised  me  that,  under  the  especial  help  of  Provi¬ 
dence,  he  had  been  enabled  to  receive  the  Prince’s  hints  of  a 
determination  to  support,  even  against  the  bigotry  of  a  father- 
in-law,  and  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  the  Protestants  of  England. 
Certainly,  so  soon  as  James  proposed  to  dispense  with  the  tests, 
and  had  written  to  his  daughter  and  son-in-law  for  their  assent, 
the  Lord’s  servant  (having  first  approved  of  the  letter  that 
contained  their  denial)  obtained  from  William  the  first  unequiv¬ 
ocal  admission  of  his  views,  by  means  of  a  previous  conference 
with  the  princess,  in  which  conference  he  convinced  her  zeal  and 
natural  affections,  that  it  was  her  chief  duty  to  protect  her  re¬ 
ligion,  and  attend,  forgetful  of  any  other  relation,  to  the  inter 
ests  of  her  husband — nay,  do  her  best  to  impress  these  interests 
on  his  mind.” 


154 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Good  God,  Mr.  Walker  !  You  talk  of  Jesuits  and  of  jesuiti* 
cal  proceedings — you  talk  of  Petre  influencing  James’s  queen, 
and,  through  her,  James’s  councils.  But  what  say  you  to  your 
own  Jesuit,  Burnet,  at  the  Hague,  thus,  by  his  and  your  admis¬ 
sions,  instigating  the  daughter  to  dethrone,  and,  it  may  be,  mur¬ 
der  her  father  ?” 

“  Again  I  remind  you  that  there  is  no  warrant  for  assuming 
that  the  actual  dethroning  of  James  is  intended.  Indeed,  I  can 
almost  convince  you.  Though  it  is  true  that  the  persecuted 
bishops  secretly  addressed  William  from  the  Tower,  at  the  same 
time  with  other  eminent  persons,  it  was  not  till  after  the  fic¬ 
titious  birth  of  a  prince  of  Wales — ” 

“  Ay,  sir,”  interrupted  Evelyn,  “  that  real,  not  fictitious 
birth,  was,  I  believe,  the  true  cause  why  we  first  began  to  con¬ 
spire  against  our  sovereign.  Then,  indeed,  it  happened,  when 
the  prince  of  Orange  seemed  suddenly,  though  lawfully,  deprived 
of  his  apparent  inheritance,  that  pressing  solicitations  were  for¬ 
warded  to  the  Hague,  and  ready  promises  given  to  them.  I  am 
utterly  surprised  at  you,  Mr.  Walker,  to  speak  of,  as  an  imposi¬ 
tion,  a  real  event,  that,  during  my  late  short  residence  in  London, 
has  been  fully  established.  Ay,  by  the  most  open  and  direct 
testimony,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  honest  men,  and  the  shame 
of  those  who,  on  such  a  question,  could  cruelly  insult  the  ten- 
derest  and  most  sacred  feelings  of  their  sovereign  !” 

“  Well !  it  is  only  my  business  to  quiet  what  you  consider  con¬ 
scientious  scruples  on  another  subject.  Before  the  matter  spoken 
of,  my  Lord  Wharton — ” 

“  A  man  in  his  dotage,”  Evelyn  cried,  impatiently. 

“  The  bishop  of  London — ” 

u  Because  under  suspension.” 

“  My  lord  of  Devonshire — ” 

“  Because  he  had  been  fined  for  striking  Colonel  Culpepper.” 

“  The  Lady  Sunderland,  a  woman  of  subtle  wit  and  admirable 
address — ” 

“  And  indebted,  through  her  husband,  for  her  very  title  to 
King  James — ” 

“  With  the  bishops,  and  some  others,  first  addressed  the 
prince.  But  to  them  lie  only  answered,  that,  if  invited  by  some 
of  the  best  interest  of  the  land,  he  rather  believed  he  could  be 
ready  by  the  eud  of  September.” 

“  This,  sir,  was  but  caution.” 

“  His  next  answer  meets  your  scruples.  Other  noblemen  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


155 


gentlemen,  such  as  the  earls  of  Danby  and  Shrewsbury,  Admi¬ 
rals  Russell  and  Herbert,  Mr.  Heury  Sichey,  James’s  own  am¬ 
bassador  in  Holland,  afterwards  appeared.  The  prince  an¬ 
swered,  after  sedate  consideration,  that  he  must  satisfy  both  his 
honor  and  conscience  before  he  could  enter  on  so  great  a  design 
and  further  protested  that  no  private  ambition,  nor  particular 
resentment,  could  prevail  upon  him  to  make  a  breach  with  so  near 
a  relation.  Therefore,  that  he  expected  more  formidable  invita¬ 
tions.” 

Evelyn  laughed  scoffingly. 

“  Admirable  prudence  1  Well  he  knew  how  to  drive  a  safe 
bargain  with  impatient  customers.  Doubtless,  sir,  after  the 
unlooked-for  birth  of  a  new  heir,  those  more  ‘  formidable  invi¬ 
tations’  came  and  convinced  him.” 

“  Doubtless,”  answered  Mr.  Walker,  still  with  difficulty,  though 
effectually,  restraining  himself  for  the  attainment  of  the  end  he 
had  in  view,  rendered  more  difficult  than  he  had  anticipated,  by 
the  unlooked-for  knowledge  and  discrimination  of  Evelyn  ;  “  as¬ 
sisted  by  the  great  doctor’s  discourses  with  the  princess,  and  her 
discourses  with  the  prince.  And  all  directed  and  prompted  by 
a  good  and  merciful  Providence.” 

“  Then  I  am  to  give  much  credit,  I  suppose,  to  William’s  state 
assertions,  Mr.  Walker,  when  I  find  him  sending  over  his  crafty 
Zuylesten  with  congratulations  to  James  on  the  birth  of  the 
prince  of  Wales,  after  yielding  to  the  suit  of  your  friends, 
chiefly  on  the  ground  of  that  birth  being  an  imposition.  And 
when  I  also  know,  and  you  cannot  deny,  that  the  real  embassy 
of  Zuylesten  was  to  collect  information  for  the  Prince’s  use — ” 

“Yes,”  interrupted  Walker,  rather  intemperately,  “and  that 
faithful  servant  most  assuredly  brought  back  such  accounts  as 
fixed  the  prince  in  his  purpose.  All  this  is  but  the  working  of 
prudence,  and  does  not  impugn  the  truth  of  his  declarations, 
repeatedly  made,  that  he  has  no  object  but  to  redress  the  people 
— no  view  of  personal  aggrandizement.  Nay,  by  my  last  ad¬ 
vices,  this  day  come  to  hand,  the  prince  having  already  taken 
leave  of  the  States  previous  to  embarkation — ” 

“  Heavens !”  cried  Evelyn,  shocked  and  excited,  “  the  tempest 
so  very  near !” 

“He,”  continued  Walker,  “in  his  parting  address  to  them, 
solemnly  takes  God  to  witness  that  he  comes  to  England  with 
uo  other  intentions  than  those  set  out  in  his  declarations.  He 
does  not  know,  indeed”  (referring  to  a  letter),  “how  the  Divine 


156 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


wisdom  may  dispose  him.  To  Providence  he  commits  himself. 
From  all  which,  you  may  reasonably  conclude,  that,  by  entering 
into  an  engagement  to  protect  your  life  and  property  against  the 
exterminating  Papists,  you  do  not,  at  the  same  time,  neces¬ 
sarily  form  any  present  league  against  King  James.  And  now, 
good-night.  Let  me  take  your  hand — the  hand  of  the  son  of  my 
old  friend.  Farewell  1  and” — the  clergyman  added,  speaking 
earnestly,  but  calmly — “  touching  the  other  matter  undecided 
betwixt  us,  I  offer  this.  I  offer  to  attend  your  nuptials — to 
officiate  in  them.  For,  Protestant  as  you  are,  you  will  require 
the  ministry  of  your  own  clergyman — and  to  bless  them,  too, 
should  there  appear  no  good  reason  why  they  shall  be  inter¬ 
rupted.  You  permit  me  to  attend  ?” 

“  I  invite  you,  sir,  willingly  and  thankfully,”  Evelyn  said, 
moved  by  this  unexpected  leniency. 

“  And  will  warn  me  of  the  day  and  place,  punctually  ?” 

Evelyn  promised. 

“  Farewell,  then,”  and  he,  at  length,  left  the  room. 

“  And  so,”  thought  Evelyn,  as  he  tried  to  compose  himself  to 
sleep,  “  by  rival  priests,  and  churches  militant,  these  countries 
are  once  more  to  be  convulsed  to  the  centre.  There  is  Petre, 
the  Jesuit,  at  St.  James’s,  and  Burnet,  the  Jesuit,  at  the  Hague. 
And  after  years  of  patient  plotting  and  prompting,  they  have  at 
last  succeeded  in  embroiling  the  whole  world,  just  that  some  good 
battles  may  be  fought  to  decide  which  shall  be  archbishop 
of  Canterbury.  There  is  William,  too,  as  good  a  Jesuit  as 
either,  I  promise  them,  though  not  in  orders.  And  lest  we 
should  lack  zeal  to  be  made  fools  and  madmen  of,  in  Ireland, 
here  we  have  an  O’Haggerty  and  a  Walker.  The  same  farce, 
this  Christian  world  over  !  The  same  men  to  kindle  the  same 
social,  nay,  domestic  dissensions.  To  arm  the  child  against  the 
parent  ;  the  true  heart  against  the  true  heart !  Good  God  !” 
he  added,  with  a  sigh,  “  shall  the  world  ever  grow  old  enough 
to  limit  priests  to  the  inculcation  of  a  peacemaking  creed,  and 
let  honest  men,  nay,  even  knaves,  mind  their  own  business,  and 
tight  their  own  quarrels  ?” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


157 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  young  men  met,  next  morning,  with  mutual  conscious¬ 
ness,  and  some  embarrassment,  growing  out  of  the  separate  con¬ 
versations  between  them  and  the  two  clergymen  on  the  night 
before.  There  was,  for  the  first  time,  that  restraint  in  their 
manner  towards  one  another,  which  ever  accompanies  the 
retrenching  of  confidence  between  old  friends.  For  Evelyn  and 
McDonnell  had  resolved  not  to  impart,  at  least  till  circumstances 
demanded  it,  the  political  engagements  both  had  bound  them¬ 
selves,  conditionally,  to  perform.  Edmund  kept  his  commission 
quietly  in  his  pocket,  and  Evelyn  as  secretly  kept  the  address 
from  his  northern  friends,  with  his  own  assent  attached  thereto 
Each  thus  practising  a  disingenuous  ness  for  which  he  could  readily 
find  arguments  to  excuse  himself,  but  of  which  he  would  have 
been  much  more  than  jealous  in  the  person  of  his  friend. 

At  an  early  hour  they  mounted  their  horses,  and,  with  Oliver, 
left  Carrickfergus.  The  weather  continued  stormy  ;  and  they 
had  not  ridden  far  northward,  when  a  heavy  shower  came  on. 
All  immediately  called  to  mind  the  absurd  promise  of  the  Rap- 
paree,  and  Edmund  remarked  : 

“  Here  is  the  shower  Rory-na-chopple  promised  us.  But 
where  is  the  colt  V 1 

“  Unless  it  rained  horses,  I  have  not  much  opinion  of  that 
prophecy,”  Evelyn  returned.  “  But  in  the  name  of  wonder, 
M’Donnell,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  colt  you  ride  Vf 

The  rain  continued  to  pour  down  so  violently,  that  men  and 
horses  were  completely  drenched. 

“  Why,  what  can  be  the  matter  with  him,  Evelyn  ?  He  keeps 
his  temper  and  his  paces.” 

“  But  look  if  he  be  not  changing  from  black  to  chestnut,  as 
the  water  runs  down  his  sides  and  neck  1  And  now  a  white 
speck  comes  out  on  his  breast,  and  a  white  star  on  his  forehead  1” 

“  Do  they  so  ?”  asked  M’Donnell,  quickly  flinging  himself  from 
the  saddle.  Then,  after  examining  the  animal  for  a  still  more 
peculiar  mark — “  By  the  blessed  saints,”  he  cried,  “  the  Rapparea 
hath  promised  fair  1  this  is  my  own  colt,  Pawdrick.” 

The  party  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then  burst 
into  a  loud  laugh. 

His  make  struck  me  at  the  first  glance,”  continued  Edmund  ; 


158 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  but  what  honest  man  could  suspect  the  cheat,  in  this  new  suit, 
and  with  the  tail  cut  short  ?  The  rascal  Tory  1  the  hanged  and 
unharmed  rascal  !  I  have  purchased  my  own  horse  from  one  of 
his  receivers — I  see  it  all,  now.  Ay,  I  have  heard  of  the  very 
trick  before  ;  one  of  the  many  which  it  is  well  known  the  villain 
uses  to  baffle  immediate  pursuit  and  detection.  Some  bogweed, 
boiled,  supplies  him  with  this  temporary  dying-stuff ;  and  if  I  am 
not  even  with  him  yet — if  I  do  not  get  his  own  face  changed 
black,  and,  under  Providence,  with  more  lasting  effect  than  his 
practices  on  my  colt,  or  than  the  gallows  had  on  it,  the  last  time, 
let  him  whisper  you  away  from  Glenarriff  again,  Pawdrick,  and 
turn  you  white,  for  novelty  ! ” 

“  ’Tis  an  amusing  villany,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  Yes,  I  grant  you,  to  all  save  the  twice-cheated.  But 
come/’  Edmund  added,  gayly  vaulting  into  his  saddle,  “  let  us 
for  the  present  think  of  it  only  for  a  jest.  Home,  Pawdrick, 
home  !  good  deeds  under  your  true  colors.  Glenarriffs  shelving 
sward  and  knee-deep  clover  are  before  you,  and  love  and  lady- 
smiles  before  your  master — move,  truant,  move  !”  Dashing 
spurs  into  Pawdrick,  he  led  on  the  party  at  a  gallant  pace. 

We  very  blamefully  omitted  to  mention,  that,  on  receipt  of 
Evelyn’s  last  letter,  Esther  had  succeeded  in  prevailing  upon 
Eva  to  name  a  day  for  making  her  brother  happy.  And  that 
the  chief  clause  of  Eva’s  compliance  was  a  counter-concession 
exacted  from  Esther,  with  the  help  of  Edmund,  then  present,  to 
do  the  same  kindness  by  her  brother. 

The  day  thus  fixed  upon  for  both  ceremonies  wras  one  towards 
the  middle  of  the  next  month,  November — about  three  weeks, 
altogether,  from  the  time  of  Edmund’s  departure  to  meet  his 
friend  in  Carrickfergus.  Lord  Antrim’s  lady,  the  rather  cele¬ 
brated  marchioness  of  Buckingham,  becoming  necessarily  a  con¬ 
fidant  on  the  occasion,  kindly  insisted  that  the  young  ladies,  each 
motherless  as  she  was,  should  accept  of  her  matronage  at  their 
nuptials,  and  also  consent  to  have  the  double  union  take  place  in 
Antrim  Castle.  The  old  earl  heartily  and  courteously  seconded 
this  arrangement ;  and  the  maidens,  much  gratified,  assented. 
Preparations  were  forthwith  commenced,  on  all  sides,  to  meet, 
with  spkendor,  mirth,  and  honor,  the  expected  day. 

The  earl  sent  invitations  to  some  of  his  leal  friends  and  neigh¬ 
bors,  such  as  the  Lord  Iveagh,  of  Mourne,  in  the  County  Down; 
O’Hagar,  of  the  county  of  Londonderry  ;  and  O’Dogherty,  of 
Inishowen  ;  not  careless,  perhaps,  of  thus  creating  an  oppor 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


159 


fcunity  for  getting  them  together  under  his  roof.  But  the  first 
invitations  were  necessarily  sent  to  his  cousin,  Randall  M’Don- 
nell,  of  Glenarrifi* ;  to  Daniel  M’Donnell,  of  Lavd  :  and  to 
several  other  M’Donnells,  all  cousins,  and  near  at  hand.  His 
lady  did  not  fail  to  take  like  measures  for  collecting  a  goodly 
company  of  fair  dames  and  gentle  damsels  ;  having  first  for¬ 
warded,  at  Esther’s  instance,  and  inclosed  in  a  dutiful  letter  of 
Esther’s  own,  a  very  kind  and  pressing  request  for  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Evelyn,  4>f  Derry  city. 

Two  suites  or rooms  were  selected  for  the  young  couples  ;  and 
workmen — the  best  that  could  be  had  from  Dublin — set  to  work 
at  them  as  soon  as  possible.  The  old  chapel  of  the  castle  was 
also  taken  in  hand,  with  a  view  to  its  being  newly  fitted  up  and 
adorned.  Then,  rich  varieties  of  material  for  bridal  attire  came 
from  the  metropolis,  and  accomplished  seamstresses,  overlooked 
by  the  tirewoman  of  the  countess,  and  assisted,  as  well  as  they 
knew  how,  by  those  in  attendance  on  the  young  ladies  them¬ 
selves,  fastened  upon  it  with  all  dispatch. 

The  maidens,  too,  occasionally  sat  down  among  their  women 
and  their  finery,  and  helped  to  forward  the  adornments  for  their 
bridal  day  ;  each,  indeed,  kindly  attending  to  the  other’s  dress 
alone.  Or  they  strolled,  arm  in  arm,  about  the  house,  carefully 
avoiding  that  wing  in  which  the  workmen  were  engaged  ;  or, 
when,  half  venturous,  they  found  themselves  too  near  it,  skip¬ 
ping.,  like  startled  fawns,  from  the  sound  of  a  heavy  footstep,  or 
the  sudden  opening  of  a  door.  At  night,  indeed,  when  the  men 
had  retired,  and  that  “the  clink  of  hammer”  no  longer  kept 
their  little  hearts  jumping  and  fluttering  to  every  knock,  they 
sometimes  hazarded  a  peep  into  those  awful  rooms,  and,  still  arm 
in  arm,  glided  about  them  on  tiptoe,  with  lamp  and  faces  held 
up,  in  shy  scrutiny  of  every  new  improvement  that  had  just 
been  completed,  or  was  in  progress.  They  explored  each  other’s 
destined  anteroom,  sitting-room,  nay,  bridal-chamber  ;  never 
having  courage,  however,  to  bestow  more  than  one  glance  at  a 
time  on  the  progressive  furnishing  of  this  last-mentioned  terrible 
apartment.  And  thus  they  spent  their  time,  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  uutil  the  arrival  of  M’Donuell  and  Evelyn  ;  speaking  very 
little  to  each  other,  but  looking  a  great  deal,  and  sighing  the 
quick,  faint  sighs  that  will  every  moment  flutter  up,  like  birds, 
from  young  hearts  full  of  happiness. 

But,  upon  the  morning  of  the  arrival  of  their  lovers,  they  had, 
at  length,  a  long  conversation. 


160 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“I  do  not  wonder  to  see  you  agitated,  dearest  sister/’  said 
Eva,  “for  I  am  so  myself.  Nor  dejected  either,  were  it  only  a 
little  ;  for  I,  too,  feel  now  and  again  a  strange  inclination  to 
weep,  and  again  I  know  not  why  or  wherefore.  But  you  are 
more  melancholy  than  the  occasion  calls  for  ;  distressed,  I  fear, 
with  something  else.” 

“  With  something  else,  indeed,  dear  Eva.  Yet  something  that 
has  to  do  with  the  occasion.” 

“  Your  aunt’s  unnatural  conduct,  heretofore  ?  Your  fears 
that  she  will  not  accept  the  present  invitation  ?” 

“  No  ;  I  must  own  I  do  not  love  my  aunt  enough  to  afflict 
myself  with  her  whims.  Though,  doubtless,  I  should  have  felt 
less  an  orphan  had  she  stayed  by  my  side,  or  if  she  will  now  act 
by  me  as  a  mother.” 

“  I  should,  indeed,  have  recollected,  that  you  have  before  told 
me  as  much.  I  might  have  known  that  your  deep  thought,  and 
melancholy,  and  secret  tears,  which  I  so  often  surprise,  must, 
therefore,  come  from  another  source.  Dear  girl,  what  is  that 
other  ?” 

“  Dear  Eva,  you  must  not  ask  me.” 

“  No  ?  Then  I  shall  not,  of  course.” 

“  Now  I  see  you  are  offended  with  me,  but  you  should  not  be. 
I  have  been  bound,  under  terrible  threats,  never  to  disclose  the 
cause  of  my — my  fears,  my  childish  fears,  after  all.  For  every 
thing  goes  on  so  as  to  prove  them  vain.  A  very  short  time  must 
decide  all ;  and  will,  I  am  sure,  decide  for  their  eternal  removal.” 

Eva  paused  a  moment  ;  then  looking  at  Esther — “  Onagh  of 
the  cavern  has  been  frightening  you,”  she  said. 

Her  friend  burst  into  tears. 

“Yes  ;  you  have  guessed  aright  !”  she  cried.  “  Oh,  if  you 
knew,  Eva,  how  that  woman  has  made  me  suffer !” 

“  Dear  silly  Esther,  can  it  be  possible  that,  after  all  our  dis* 
course  about  that  woman,  you  still  suffer  her  to  dwell  a  moment 
in  your  thought  ?” 

“  Oh,  Eva,  there  is  cause  why  I  should !” 

“You  mean  the  silly  words  she  spoke  to  you  in  the  little  glen  V' 

“No  ;  worse,  much  worse  than  that.” 

“You  have  seen  her  since,  then ?” 

“  Alas  1  alas  1  I  have.” 

“  Lately  ?  And  where  ?” 

“  Lately.  But  that  was  not  the  occasion  of  what  distresses 
me.  Dear  Eva,  ask  me  no  more — I  dare  not  epeak  openly  to 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


161 


you.  Long,  long,  the  painful  knowledge  has  been  with  me. 
Long,  long,  have  I  wished  to  tell  you  of  it,  and  ask  your  coun¬ 
sel,  and  listen  to  your  disproving  arguments.  But  I  durst  not.” 

“  Has  the  wretched  creature  pledged  you  to  secrecy  ?” 

“  Not  exactly  so  ^  but  her  denouncements  on  me  if  I  divulged 
the  secret,  particularly  to  you,  are  shocking.” 

Eva  laughed.  “  Come,  come,  dearest  Esther,  there  is  one  on 
the  road  by  this  time  shall  make  a  false  prophet  of  Mrs.  Ouagh. 
You  see  I  can  divine  at  least  the  nature  of  her  mummerv. 
Shame  upon  you,  Esther,  to  admit,  at  a  sensible  age,  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  such  weakness  in  your  mind  !  Shame  again  upon  you, 
in  my  brother’s  name,  to  weigh  the  words  of  an  impostor  or  a 
mad  woman  against  his  true  love  !  So,  even  without  the  tie  of 
an  extorted  promise,  you  will  refuse  me  the  opportunity  to  laugli 
at  this  new  conceit,  whatever  it  is,  merely  because  the  wise 
woman  of  Cushindoll  has  threatened  to  bewitch  you,  perhaps  ? 
Be  it  so,  silly  child.  But  were  I  in  your  place,  and  you  in  mine, 
asking  this  favor,  I  would  cast  her  charms  and  her  broomstick, 
her  familiar  and  her  fiddlestick,  as  feathers,  to  the  four  winds  of 
heaven,  rather  than  leave  you  one  instant  unanswered.” 

“  I  will  take  heart  to  tell  you,  then,”  said  her  more  timid  com¬ 
panion.  “I  am  sure  I  ought,  Evm,  and  that  all  is,  as  you  say, 
childishness.  Indeed,  although  it  happened  before  our  removal 
from  the  seashore  to  Lough  Neagh,  I  was  able,  of  my  own  ac¬ 
cord,  by  prayer,  and  the  calm  exercise  of  reason,  almost  to  for¬ 
get  it.  Until  yesternight,  when  the  voice  of  Onagh  sounded  at 
my  chamber  window,  just  as  I  lay  down  in  bed,  whispering 
strangely — bend  towards  me,  Eva,  I  cannot  bear  to  repeat  the 
words  aloud — ‘  The  bridal  robe  is  nearly  made.  So  is  the 
shroud,  though  not  so  nearly.  Still,  forget  not  All  Saints’  Eve, 
the  last  but  one.’  ” 

“  The  insolent  woman  !”  Eva  cried,  with  flashing  eyes,  as  she 
protectingly  encircled  her  friend  with  her  arm,  she  now  grows 
too  bold,  and  I  will  surely  desire  Edmund  to  see  that  she  keeps 
within  bounds.  But  you  are  certain  she  was  there  at  the  win¬ 
dow  ?  It  could  not  have  been  a  dream  ?” 

“  I  think  not  ;  though  Heaven  knows,  often  and  often  have 
her  face  and  figure  made  my  sleep  horrible,  Eva.  Oh  1  I  have 
fancied  her  crouching  on  my  bed,  at  night,  and  on  my  breast, 
until  through  dread  and  shrinking,  I  shrieked  aloud,  and  so  woke 
myself,  trembling  and  panting.  Again  and  again  have  I  dreamt 
such  things.  Oh  !  Eva,  I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  suffering  that 
strange  woman  has  caused  me  1” 


162 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  That  was  your  own  fault,  Esther,  more  than  hers.  But — 

1  still  remember  All  Saints’  Eve,’ — those  were  her  words.  What 
could  she  mean  by  that  ?  Let  me  see.  All  Saints’  Eve,  the 
last  but  one,  you  were  too  ill  and  feverish  to  leave  your  room, 
and  Onagh  did  not  surely  approach  the  house.” 

“Ill  and  feverish  I  indeed  was,  Esther,  and — do  n}t  smile  at 
me,  dear  girl — partly  on  account  of  the  story  you  told  me  of  an¬ 
other  All  Saints’  Eve.  Onagh  did  not  come  to  your  house,  and 
yet  I  saw  her.” 

“  I  cannot  understand  that.” 

“  Listen,  then,”  the  girl  said,  laying  her  face  down  on  her 
friend’s  shoulder,  and  speaking  in  tones  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 
“  I  retired,  as  you  know,  to  my  own  room,  because  my  mind  and 
body  were  so  troubled  I  could  not  bear  the  company  even  of 
those  I  loved  so  well.  I  retired  to  my  room,  but  did  not  ke-  p 
my  room.” 

“  How,  Esther  !” 

“  Indeed,  I  think  my  mind  must  have  failed  me  altogether  to 
do  what  I  did.  It  was  unnatural  courage,  I  am  sure.  You  may 
remember,  I  was  obliged  to  keep  my  bed  next  day,  and  I  talked 
lightly,  did  I  not  ?” 

“  I  indeed  remember  that  you  had  then  an  illness  severe  and 
alarming,  though  of  short  continuance.  But  go  on.  You  left 
your  room — why  ?” 

“There  I  sat,  Esther,  alone  in  the  shivering  moonlight,  for  I 
grew  so  strange,  even  to  myself,  that  I  could  not  bear  my  lamp. 
There  I  sat  alone,  thinking  of  Onagh’s  prophecy,  of  all  you  had 
told  me,  of  all  I  had  seen  her  do  at  the  cavern,  as  we  passed  her  by, 
and  of  what  she  had  said  to  me  in  the  little  glen.  I  was  conscious, 
too,  what  night  it  was — an  anniversary  of  the  awful  one  upon 
which,  while  I  was  such  a  distance  away  from  her,  that  evil 
woman  spanned  my  fate — a  recurrence  of  the  night  on  which  a 
knowledge  of  the  future  comes,  from  good  or  evil,  for  good  or 
evil,  to  the  earth.  These  were  my  thoughts  ;  I  could  not  check 
them.  I  believe  I  did  not  even  strive  to  check  them.  Whether 
or  no,  they  took  such  possession  of  me  that,  as  I  listened  to  the 
boom  of  the  sea,  or  to  the  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the 
trees  at  the  back  of  the  house,  I  thought  the  sounds  became 
voices,  all  echoing  what  Onagh  had  told  me.  I  looked  out  into 
the  lights  and  shadows  cast  by  the  moon,  upon  the  broad  hills  so 
near  me,  and  your  brother’s  figure,  Eva,  seemed,  over  and  over, 
to  flit  by  my  window.  Until  at  last  I  started  up  and  could  have 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


163 


screamed,  I  know  not  why,  for,  strange  to  say,  it  u  as  not  fear  I 
felt. 

“  At  last  came  a  desperate  thought.  It  broke  upon  my  dis¬ 
quieted  mind  to  seek  Onagh  that  very  night  in  her  cavern,  and 
challenge  her  to  work  me  a  charm.  Scarce  was  this  wild  fancy 
formed,- when,  gliding  through  a  back-door,  I  found  myself,  badly 
protected  from  the  howling  winds,  on  the  road  to  her  cavern. 
The  distance,  you  have  told  me,  is  about  a  mile.  I  know  not  how 
soon  or  how  long  I  might  have  been  going  ;  but  I  well  remem¬ 
ber  rushing  into  the  blank  mouth  of  her  cavern-house,  and  when 
at  some  distance  in  its  recesses,  I  saw  a  red  light.  Stopping  sud¬ 
denly — 

“  ‘A  hundred  thousand  welcomes/  I  then  heard  her  say,  the 
voice  reaching  me  through  utter  darkness  ;  ‘  we  were  expecting 
you  ;  come  in.’  Eva,  still  I  was  not  frightened  ;  I  did  advance 
into  the  cave. 

“  And,  gracious  God  !  what  a  sight  there  met  my  eyes  1  Onagh’s 
back  was  to  me  as  I  approached.  She  sat  on  her  heels,  and 
stooped  forward  her  head  and  body,  as  if  watching  something  on 
the  ground.  A  turn  in  the  cave,  as  I  still  advanced,  showed  me 
the  figure  of  a  very  aged  and  exceedingly  small  woman,  sitting 
opposite  to  her,  also  crouching,  and  looking  intently  downwards. 
At  another  step,  my  eye  followed  theirs,  and  fell  upon  the  corpse 
of  a  second  hag,  stretched  out  upon  the  damp  and  earthen  floor, 
a  large  stone  laid  on  her  breast,  another  on  her  knees,  and  a 
piece  of  flaming  wood  in  her  rigid  hand.  Even  yet,  Eva,  I  felt 
no  terror  ;  I  only  wondered. 

“  ‘  She’s  waking  herself/  said  Onagh,  with  a  laugh,  and  not 
raising  her  head  to  look  at  me. 

“  ‘Who  is  she  V  I  asked.  My  voice  had  a  strange  ring  in  it. 
I  started  even  as  I  spoke. 

“  ‘  I  know  no  more  than  you/  Onagh  answered,  rocking  her 
bent  body  and  head  to  and  fro,  while  her  chin  touched  her  knees, 
and  her  hands  were  clasped  across  her  legs.  ‘  No,  no  more  than 
the  child  unborn.  Only,  here  I  found  her,  with  the  other  before 
you,  this  All  Saints’  Eve  come  seven  years.  My  time  was  just 
up  with  them,  and  an  hour  to  spare,  when  we  got  her,  stark  and 
stiff,  down  in  the  end  of  the  place.  Ay,  crippled  too,  though 
she  lies  out  so  straight,  there,  with  the  help  of  the  two  stones 
that  keep  her  like  a  Christian  corpse.  Isn’t  that  it,  gran’-aunt  V 
again  laughing,  and  addressing  the  old  woman  opposite  to  her.  ‘  I 
call  her  gran’-aunt,  you  see,  and  her  that’s  gone  I  used  to  call 


164 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


granny,  and  no  other  names  had  I  for  them.  You  don’t  know 
how  I  found  them  out  here  ;  I’ll  tell  you,  then.  The(arly  blight 
came  on  me,  as  early  it  will  come  on  yourself,  and  I  was  restless, 
and  didn’t  kuow  what  to  do.  Until  one  night  I  found  an  apron 
that  had  been  thieved  from  me  long  before,  lying  on  the  floor  as 
I  got  into  bed  ;  it  was  all  knotted  and  twisted,  and  I  guessed  by 
what  hands.  I  opened  one  knot,  and  then  another  and  another. 
For  every  knot  I  opened,  there  came  a  face  round  my  bed,  and 
at  last  the  faces  of  the  two  you  see  here  to-night.  Next  morn¬ 
ing  I  left  my  mother’s  home.  I  met  the  first  face  I  saw  the 
night  before,  and  she  led  me  a  bit  of  the  road.  Then  I  met  the 
next,  and  she  gave  me  a  second  help.  And  so  on,  until,  day  and 
night,  I  walked  from  the  south  to  the  north,  and  the  last  friend 
parted  me  abroad  at  the  open  door  you  came  in  by.  And  here 
I  found  the  one  that  lies  stretched  there,  and  the  other  squatting 
before  you.  And  a  hearty  welcome  I  had  from  the  both.’ 

“  ‘  Up,  Onagh  !’  I  said,  interrupting  her,  ‘  and  work  me  a 
charm — a  true  one — a  sure  one.  One  that  will  make  me  sure 
forever  of  what  you  have  told  me.’ 

“  ‘  Go  with  her,  gran’-aunt,’  she  said,  ‘  further  up,  into  the 
dark.  Take  this  rape-seed’ — giving  me  some — 4  repeat  after  me 
the  words  you  will  hear  me  say,  and  drop  the  rape-seed  as  you 
repeat  them.  That  will  do  ;  for  I  can’t  leave  the  corpse  till  the 
cock  crows.’  ” 

Eva,  who  had  so  far  been  listening  in  silent  wonder  to  this 
wild  story,  here  interrupted  the  narration. 

“  Esther  she  said,  gravely,  “  dear  girl  !  This  sounds  like  a 
fantastic  dream.  Do  you  tell  me  that  such  things  really  hap¬ 
pened  ?” 

“It  was  no  dream,  Eva,”  Esther  as  gravely  replied.  “No  ! 
no  !  what  I  tell  you  too  truly  occurred.  Listen,  and  you  will 
understand  all. 

“The  old  pigmy  got  on  her  feet — in  height  she  was  not  more 
than  a  child— and  hobbled  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cave,  I 
following  her.  When  we  had  gone  almost  entirely  beyond  the 
influence  of  the  light,  she  stopped,  and  Onagh  screamed  out,  far 
behind  us — 1  Are  ye  there  V 

“  1  Say  the  words,’  answered  my  companion.  Onagh  repeated, 
as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  the  following  lines  : 

**  ‘  Rape-seed  I  sow,  rape-seed  I  sow, 

Come  from  above,  or  come  from  1  ©low  ; 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


165 


Come  far,  come  near  ! 

Show  me  my  sweetheart,  show  me  my  - 
Show  him  as  he  will  be  to  me, 

A  blessing,  or  a  misery.’ 


“  Eva,  I  know  I  was  disturbed  in  mind ;  I  know,  too,  that, 
hist  as  I  had  ended  my  repetition  of  the  lines,  I  grew  afraid  for 
the  hist  time — and  my  senses  may  here  have  deceived  me.  Bo 
that  as  it  may,  never  in  my  life  before  did  the  face  and  figure  of 
Edmund  pass  plainer  before  me,  than — even  in  the  dark — at  that 
horrible  moment.  But  his  face  was  pale,  and  his  figure  wasted. 
After  he  passed,  there  was  another  motion  in  the  dark,  as  if  he 
would  cross  the  cavern  again.  When  I  again  looked,  my  eyes 
met — instead  of  him — death,  Eva,  death !” 

“  What  do  you  mean  V’  asked  Eva,  distending  her  eyes. 

“  Death,  I  say  !  the  grinning  head  and  the  skeleton  frame  of 
death  !  And  it  wore,  on  the  bony  brow,  a  bridal  chaplet !” 

“Absurdity,  dearest  girl !  You  have,  yourself,  fully  accounted 
for  the  mockery.  Why  should  I  argue  with  you  ?  The  pre¬ 
vious  state  of  your  mind — your  feverish  health — your  terrors — 
your  prejudices — every  thing  joined  to  distract  and  impose  upon 
you.” 

“  That  may  be  ;  nay,  1  am  sure  it  was  so  ;  yet  so  real  and 
dreadful  was  the  impression  of  the  moment,  that  I  screamed  and 
swooned  away.  When  I  revived,  I  found  myself  in  the  open 
air,  within  sight  of  our  cottage,  Onagh  standing  over  me.  I 
screamed  again,  when  I  saw  her. 

“‘Now/  she  said,  ‘you  look  as  if  you  were  satisfied.  Be 
satisfied,  then.  Never  can  he  wive  with  you/ 

“  ‘  Why  must  this  be  V  I  cried  wildly ;  ‘  and  why  should  you 
terrible  w'oman,  decide  his  fate  and  mine  ?’ 

“  ‘  Hearken  to  me  P  she  ref  lied,  looking  less  insane,  and  more 
intelligent  and  stern  than  I  had  before  seen  her  ;  ‘  I  have  doomed 
him,  and  others,  too,  on  earth  and  in  heaven — never  to  taste  the 
sweets  of  woman’s  love.  Was  there  no  doom  in  question  he 
should  not  taste  it.  I,  alone,  a  woman,  and  a  weak  and  friend 
less  one,  would  hinder  him.’ 

“  ‘  Wherefore  V  I  still  asked,  fiercely,  I  believe. 

“  ‘  — Nor  if  he  had  twenty  brothers  should  one  of  them  e§ 
cape  the  same  fate/  she  continued.  ‘  He  had  one  brother  who  did 
escape  it  ;  but  he  is  gone/  ” 

“  Ha  1”  Eva  said,  startled,  but  not  enough  affected,  in  ap 


166 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


pearance,  to  attract  Esther’s  notice,  who  continued,  without 
raising  her  head  : 

“  ‘  Yonder,’  Onagh  added,  ‘  is  your  yet  happy  house  ;  speed  to 
it,  and  have  your  time  of  happiness.’  Then  all  at  once  relapsing 
into  her  usual  manner,  she  added,  slowly  :  1  If  you  betray  what 
I  have  last  said,  to  him  or  his  sister,  such  faces  shall  watch  your 
sleeping,  such  curses  shall  attend  your  pilgrimage  on  earth,  as 
will  make  you  dearly  rue  the  treachery.  The  blessing  of  this 
good  All  Saints’  night  be  with  you.’  And  she  left  me.  I  re¬ 
turned  home,  and  secretly  gained  my  sleeping-chamber.” 

“  Well  ?”  Eva  said,  quite  recovered  from  her  own  late  agitation, 
as  she  smiled  and  looked  at  Esther,  as  if  to  hear  more — “  well, 
pretty  sister,  and  is  this  all  ?  Tut,  tut  ;  the  woman  either  is 
knave  enough  to  frighten  you  for  the  purpose  of  extorting 
money,  or  fool  enough  for  any  piece  of  nonsense.  And  this  is 
the  terrible  secret  that  has  weighed  you  down  so  long — the  ter¬ 
rible  prophecy  that  is  to  turn  your  true-love  sweets  into  bitter¬ 
ness  ?  Come,  come  !  I  know  one  who  will  cure  these  silly  fan¬ 
cies.  And,  Esther,  in  some  half-score  years,  after  a  certain  day 
of  the  coming  month,  I  shall  know  a  something  of  a  matron 
lady,  who,  with  half-a-dozen  young  M’JDonnells  around  her,  will 
join  me  in  laughing  at  them.” 

“  Shame,  Eva  M’Donnell  !”  said  Esther,  smiling  as  if  she 
wholly  forgot  her  terrors,  and  blushing  at  the  prospect  her 
friend  so  jestingly  held  out  to  her. 

“  By  the  way,  Esther,”  Eva  continued,  wishing  to  keep  as 
clear  as  possible  of  the  old  topic,  “  will  you  let  me  ask  you  a 
strange,  and  yet,  perchance,  not  an  improper  question?” 

“  It  cannot  be  improper  from  Eva — ask  it.” 

Eva  took  the  leave  granted,  and  their  conversation  continued 
on  a  subject  much  more  likely  to  influence  Esther’s  future  hap¬ 
piness  than  could  the  extravagant  one  they  had  just  ended. 

“  I  scarce  know  how  to  begin,  Esther,”  said  Eva,  in  her  turn 
blushing  deeply  ;  “  but  we  are  to  become  wives,  you  know  ;  and 
wives  generally  become  mothers.  And  so,  when  we  shall  be  such,  if 
in  that  case,  have  yen  ever  thought  how  you  should  arrange  the 
questions  of  religious  difference  between  yourself  and  Edmund  ?” 

“  How  do  you  mean  ?”  Esther  asked. 

“  In  what  creed  should  you  wish  your  children  to  be  brought 
up  ?  That  is  the  question  I  wanted  to  ask.” 

“  In  my  own,  to  be  sure,  Eva,”  said  Esther,  very  naturally  ex¬ 
pressing  the  first  idea  she  had  ever  formed  on  the  subject. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


167 


“  Well,  that  is  natural.  But  you  must  recollect  that  your 
husband  will  have  his  wish  too.” 

“  So  he  will,  indeed  ;  I  had  not  thought  of  that.” 

“  Here,  then,  is  a  difference  at  once  ;  the  difference  I  supposed 
all  along.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  any  way  of  getting  over 


“I  know  of  none,  unless — ”  She  paused. 

11  Unless  Edmund  yields  to  your  wish,  implicitly  ?” 

“Yes,  indeed,  Eva.” 

“  Suppose  he  should  entertain  the  same  hopes  of  your  good 
nature  and  liberality  ?” 

“  Then  I  shall  be  truly  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  But,  indeed, 
Eva,  I  could  never  bear  to  see  a  child  of  mine  go  to  the  mass- 
house.” 

“  Esther  !  you  forget  you  speak  to  me,”  said  Eva,  a  little 
coldly  and  haughtily. 

“  I  did,  perhaps,  forget  that,  in  speaking  to  you,  I  addressed 
a  Roman  Catholic,”  resumed  Esther,  piqued  on  the  only  point 
in  which  she  was  susceptible.  “Yet  I  have  honestly  expressed 
what  I  feel,  Eva,  though  the  manner  was  unguarded  and  abrupt.” 

“  The  mass-house  is  not  the  pest-house,  Esther,  to  require  being 
mentioned  so  abhorringly  ;  nor  need  the  religion  of  your  be¬ 
trothed  husband  call  for  such  contempt  at  your  hands.” 

“  After  all,  Eva,  I  wish  he  was  of  my  own  religion.” 

“  Do  you  make  it  an  objection  to  your  union  with  him  ?”  Eva 
inquired,  very  pointedly. 

“  Do  you  mean  to  offend  me  by  that  question,  and  particularly 
by  that  look,  Eva  ?” 

“  Esther  Evelyn,  I  am  above  meanness  of  any  kind  ;  least  of 
all,  the  meanness  of  influencing  a  free  will.  This  only  I  have  to 
say — that  if  your  brother  held  to  me,  on  my  own  account,  the 
language  you  here  speak  of  my  brother,  I  would — sincerely  and 
dearly  as  I  love  him — tear  him  at  once  from  my  heart,  and  try  to 
forget  him  forever  1” 

“  And  I,  Eva  M’ Donnell,  can  easily  apply  what  you  say  to  the 
present  case.  Perhaps  I  have  my  own  independent  notions  on 
the  matter.  But  you  have  asked  me  questions  all  along  ;  allow 
me  a  few  in  turn.  You,  too,  are  about  to  be  wedded  to  a  man 
who  differs  from  you  in  religion.  What  is  your  own  resolve — I 
know  you  have  formed  one — to  meet  the  case  you  were  pleased 
to  pose  for  me  ?” 


answer,  honorably,  this  is  my  resolve.  I  would  strive,  by 


168 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


all  means  in  my  power,  and,  of  course,  only  by  all  permitted  to  a 
lady  of  gentle  blood,  to  bring  my  husband’s  mind  to  look  so  toi- 
eratingly — I  will  say,  justly — on  the  tenets  and  spirit  of  my  holy 
faith,  that  he  should  feel,  under  the  permission  of  Providence,  no 
such  horror  as  you  have  expressed  in  allowing  me  the  religious 
guidance  of  my  children.” 

“  That  is  to  say,  you  would  strive  to — to  convert  him,”  said 
Esther,  suppressing  a  phrase  she  knew  would  be  offensive,  and 
using  one  she  also  knew  Eva  preferred. 

“  If  I  did,  it  were  but  my  duty,”  replied  Eva. 

“  Indeed  !”  cried  Esther  ;  “  this  is  new  information,  Eva 
M’Donnell.”  Then,  after  a  pause,  “  I  take  it  as  granted  you 
now  speak  the  general  sentiments  of  all  of  your  persuasion.  If 
so,  what  am  I  to  expect  in  a  situation  where  authority  can  en¬ 
force  zeal  ?” 

“  Again  I  wTarn  you,  Esther,  that  unless  you  mean  by  these 
reflections  to  object  to  a  union  with  Edmund  M’Donnell,  they  are 
uselessly — idly  said.  The  avowals  I  make  are,  indeed,  rather 
new  between  us  ;  and  perhaps  for  a  reason.  When  we  met  first, 
the  times  were  tranquil  ;  the  enemies  of  my  religion  seemed  wil¬ 
ling  to  allow  it  rest,  and,  at  least,  to  tolerate  it  in  the  inter¬ 
changes  of  society.  Now  the  spirit  of  exclusion,  nay,  of  exter¬ 
mination,  is  busy  again  ;  we  are  once  more  marked  out  and  pro¬ 
scribed.  It  may  be  that  I  was  disposed,  under  such  a  change, 
to  ascertain  the  prospect  of  domestic  happiness  to  be  hoped  for 
by  my  brother,  in  the  tone  of  mind,  on  religious  subjects,  enter¬ 
tained  by  his  affianced  lady.” 

“  And  I,  too,  mayhap,”  said  Esther,  “felt  inclined  to  look  for 
some  lights  on  this  subject,  when  I  knew,  as  I  know  now,  that 
my  religion,  and  not  yours,  was  and  is  that  marked  out  for  de¬ 
struction,  in  the  coming  tumult  which  threatens  us  all !” 

“Bigotry!”  said  Eva  M’Donnell,  haughtily. 

“  And  bigotry,”  retorted  Esther  Evelyn,  “  to  accuse  the  creed  I 
profesa  and  that  Robert  Evelyn  also  professes,  of  any  cruel  in¬ 
tent  ions,  nay,  of  any  unfair  disturbing  of  domestic  happiness. 
Let  your  own  religion,  Eva,  teach  you  to  forget  the  submission 
of  a  wife  ;  mine  shall  never  teach  me  the  same  doctrine.” 

“  Yet,  this  moment,  you  wished  Edmund  a  Protestant?” 

“  And  wish  it  still.” 

“  Then  would  you  not  strive  to  gain  your  wish  ?” 

“  By  all  fair  and  Christian  means,  assuredly.” 


T1IE  BOYNE  WATER. 


169 


What !”  cried  Eva,  alarmed  in  her  turn,  “  try  to  change  him  ? 
My  brother  ought  to  know  this.” 

“  Tell  him,  then.  Only  let  me  have  the  same  freedom  to  speak 
to  my  brother.” 

“  Take  it,”  said  Eva,  rising  proudly.  A  hunting-horn  sounded 
cheerily  at  a  distance,  calling  out  the  echoes  of  the  surrounding 
hills.  “  Here,”  she  continued,  pointing  to  a  window  that  com¬ 
manded,  for  more  than  the  distance  of  a  mile,  the  road  that 
swept  down  the  mountain  to  Glenarm  Castle — “  here  both  should 
be  to  give  us  timely  opportunity.  That  was  Edmund’s  wonted 
signal  of  approach  homeward  ;  and  yonder,  indeed,  four  horse¬ 
men  spur  down  the  hill-road,  two  of  them  much  ahead  of  the 
others.” 

“My  brother!  my  dear  brother!”  exclaimed  Esther,  gaining 
the  window,  also,  and  clasping  her  hands  ;  “  and  Edmund,  dear, 
dear  Edmund  !”  The  last  words  escaped  her  heart,  in  despite  of 
the  pettishness  of  the  previous  moment.  “  Oh,  Eva,”  she  cried 
— giving  vent  to  the  master  feeling  thus  betrayed — “  he  is  my 
only  life,  after  all !”  The  avowal  broke  down  the  barriers  that 
the  last  few  moments  had  built  up  between  them,  and  the  two 
girls  embraced  the  more  warmly  for  their  passing  coolness. 

“And  think  you,  Esther,  that  I  behold,  without  a  welling-up 
of  woman’s  utmost  tenderness,  the  return,  after  such  an  absence, 
of  Robert  Evelyn  ?  We  have  been  but  idly  vexing  each  other. 
Come,  then,  an  answer  to  their  signal.” 

She  opened  the  window  ;  both  stood  at  it,  and  waved  their 
white  kerchiefs,  over  and  over,  on  the  breeze. 

“They  see  us!”  resumed  Eva;  “they  doff  their  hats,  and 
wave  them  high  in  return  !  Let  us,  dear  Esther,  end  our  dis¬ 
cussion,  while  they  approach.  Neither  of  us  will  use  unfair 
means  of  persuasion  to  affect  the  mode  of  faith  of  our  husbands. 
Both,  meantime,  are  free  to  introduce,  in  season,  plain  statements 
of  our  own  creed,  and  arguments  why  we  prefer  it.  We  will 
both,  also,  surely  listen,  calm  and  unprejudiced,  to  reasons  that 
may  be  given  us  in  reply.” 

“  That  were  but  honorable  and  rational,”  said  Esther.  But,  in 
honesty,  we  must  avow,  that  the  young  ladies  thus  easily  agreed, 
because  they  mutually  thought  that,  according  to  the  plans  pro¬ 
posed,  they  could  as  easily  have  every  thing  their  own  way. 

“  And  as  to  the  question  of  offspring,  Esther — beshrew  it  for 
a  strange  one  I — do  you  know  how  some  sensible  persons  have 
done  in  a  like  case  ?” 


8 


170 


THE  BO  THE  WATER. 


“  No,  Eva  ;  but  let  me  hear,  and  speedily.”  Her  eyes  darted 
through  the  wiudow,  as  she  still  waved  her  kerchief. 

“Supposing,  under  the  will  of  God,  girls,”  rejoined  Eva,  with 
some  vagueness  of  expression,  “  the  mother  had  care  of  them. 
And  supposing  boys,  the  father.” 

“  That  is  excellent  !”  said  Esther,  her  looks  and  occupation 
still  unchanged.  “  Yes!  Let  them  have  their  boys,  and  we  can 
have  our  girls.” 

“Now,  shame  on  us  both,  Esther,”  resumed  Eva,  again  joining 
her  friend  in  signals  of  welcome,  “  and  Heaven  pardon  us  such 
unmaidenly  calculations,  and  such  presumption  on  the  will  of 
Providence.” 

“It  was  bold  and  wicked,  indeed,  I  believe,”  said  Esther. 
“  Though,  I  am  sure,  neither  of  us  thought  harm.” 

The  horsemen  had  now  come  so  near  as  to  be  fully  recogniz¬ 
able  ;  then  were  salutations  renewed  with  more  energy.  As 
they  gained  the  outskirts  of  the  little  hamlet  of  Glenarm.  a 
dozen  bagpipers,  heading  a  newly-raised  company  of  men, 
screamed  out  the  welcome  of  Edmund  M’Donnell,  and  of  the  be¬ 
trothed  husband  of  Eva.  The  men  joined  their  shout  to  the 
clamor  ;  the  travellers  darted  by  them  ;  passed  through  the  ham¬ 
let,  and  gained  the  drawbridge  of  Glenarm  Castle,  which  was 
over  a  rapid  mountain-stream,  instead  of  an  artificial  fosse.  It 
was  lowered  ;  the  hollow  trampling  of  their  horses  sounded  on 
it,  as  the  ladies  lost  sight  of  them.  The  clattering  of  hoofs  was 
heard  in  the  yard  ;  and,  at  last,  they  rushed  into  the  saloon  occu¬ 
pied  by  their  betrothed  maidens.  It  was,  in  one  respect,  an  odd 
meeting.  Brothers  and  sisters  looked  first  at  each  other — lovers 
looked  at  their  beloved.  There  was  a  second’s  hesitation  as  to 
how  they  were  all  to  commence  greetings,  which  Edmund  ended 
by  catching  Esther  in  his  arms.  In  the  next  instant  he  led  her 
to  Evelyn,  who,  notwithstanding  his  long  absence,  did  not  show 
much  chagrin  at  the  arrangement  which  had  obliged  him  to  greet 
Eva  before  his  sister. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

“  And  whither  do  you  go  to-day,  M’Donnel  ?”  asked  Evelyn 
of  his  friend,  about  a  week  after  his  return. 

“  To  Glenarriff,”  answered  Edmund. 

“  You  have  gone  thither  very  often  of  late.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


171 


11  Not  oftener,  surely,  than  my  preparations  for  an  approach¬ 
ing  event  require.” 

“  What  event  do  you  mean  ?” 

“  You  should  surely  think  I  mean  but  one — my  marriage  with 
your  sister.”  So  the  young  men  parted. 

But  Evelyn’s  brow  fell.  He  had,  as  his  questions  imported, 
been  somewhat  suspicious  of  Edmund’s  visits  to  Glenarriff ;  an 
accident  had  helped  to  confirm  and  inflame  this  jealousy.  In  his 
friend’s  absence  he  had  joined,  a  few  days  before,  a  party  of 
huntsmen  from  Antrim  Castle.  The  hunt  was  a  long  one  ;  it 
led  them  as  far  as  the  spacious  valley  in  which  Edmund’s  house 
stood.  Evelyn  rode  unperceived  to  the  brow  of  the  chain  of  hills 
that  commanded  it  ;  below  him,  on  the  level  ground  at  the  side 
of  the  river,  he  recognized  Edmund  at  the  head  of  a  body  of 
armed  men,  engaged  in  putting  them  through  some  military  ex¬ 
ercise.  This  seemed  done  in  secrecy  ;  but  it  might  not  be  so  : 
M’Donnell  might  merely  have  forgotten  to  give  him  his  confi¬ 
dence.  Evelyn  determined  to  see  ;  therefore,  the  question  to 
which  he  now  felt  he  had  received  an  insincere  reply. 

He  was  indignant  with  Edmund  :  he  did  not  perceive  that 
some  portion  of  the  discontent  that  agitated  him  ought  to  have 
been  visited  on  himself.  Or,  perhaps,  he  really  felt  a  self-reproach, 
but  unconsciously  added  it  to  the  weight  of  his  actual  jealousy 
of  his  young  friend.  Nor  could  he  distinguish  that  much  of  Ed¬ 
mund’s  alteration  of  manner — for  there  was  alteration — sprang 
from  a  similar  jealousy,  on  his  part,  of  Evelyn,  to  which  jealousy 
a  certain  circumstance  had  also  given  cause. 

A  few  evenings  before,  Evelyn  had,  in  his  company,  received 
a  letter  which  seemed  to  agitate  him  as  he  read  it.  Glancing 
inadvertently  at  it,  M’Donnell  saw  his  own  name  more  than  once 
written  by  this  unknown  correspondent.  Evelyn  put  up  the  letter 
gravely,  and  his  spirits  and  manner  were  chilled  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening.  Edmund  took  an  opportunity  of  asking,  in  jest,  if 
the  epistle  contained  any  slander  of  him.  His  friend  started, 
and  stared  at  him  ;  then  deliberately  added  that  it  did  not  even 
mention  his  name. 

It  was  from  Walker,  in  answer  to  one  Evelyn  had  written, 
according  to  engagement,  to  inform  that  gentleman  of  the  day 
and  place  appointed  for  his  marriage.  Renewing  promises  to 
attend,  it  proceeded  to  acquaint  him  of  the  fact  of  William 
having  embarked  for  England  ;  of  the  veteran  army  and  noble 
suite  that  accompanied  him  ;  of  the  certainty  of  a  Popish  plot  to 


172 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


massacre  all  the  Protestants  in  Ireland,  early  in  December. 
With  the  still  more  appalling  intelligence  that  Edmund  M’Donnell 
was  pledged  to  take  a  conspicuous  part  in  it. 

By  the  same  hand  came  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Evelyn  to  Esther, 
rather  uncourteously  declining  the  invitation  to  grace  and  bless 
her  nuptials,  and  filled  with  repetitions  of  the  certain  intelligence 
of  a  general  massacre,  in  which,  according  to  Mrs.  Evelyn  also, 
young  M’Dounell  and  his  old  rebel  father  were  to  do  horrid 
things.  This  epistle  terrified  and  afflicted  Esther,  more  than  any 
former  effort  of  her  aunt.  Eva,  surprising  her  in  tears,  got  the 
letter  to  read.  Firing  up  forthwith,  she  swept  away  to  place 
the  insulting  document  before  her  betrothed  lord — not  in  re¬ 
proach,  indeed,  but  fully  anticipating  his  equal  wrath  and  detes¬ 
tation  of  the  writer.  She  was  startled  and  shocked  by  his  unex¬ 
pected  coldness  of  observation  upon  it.  Back  she  swept  again 
to  Esther,  returned  the  letter,  and  retired  to  her  own  chamber. 

It  was  now  known  to  all  that  the  prince  of  Orange  had  em¬ 
barked  from  Holland,  with  a  fair  wind.  But  about  the  time 
when  he  might  be  expected  to  land,  the  fair  wind  changed  into  a 
foul  one  ;  storms  arose  ;  dispatches  from  England  to  Ireland 
were,  by  the  same  changes,  obstructed,  and  every  one  paused  in 
silence  to  await  the  final  event.  Evelyn  found  himself  obliged 
to  suspend  all  remark  ;  and  this  increased  his  discontent  and 
suspicion.  No  one  spoke  to  him  on  the  matter,  and  he  would 
speak  to  no  one.  But  he  saw,  with  bitter  feelings,  the  earl  of 
Antrim,  Lord  Iveagh,  and  other  guests — who,  anticipating  the 
marriage,  seemed  rather  to  have  visited  Antrim  Castle  for  differ¬ 
ent  purposes  than  to  witness  it — get  together  with  Edmund  in 
knots,  and  whisper  and  consult  beyond  all  patience. 

But  though  this  state  of  feeling,  amongst  the  parties  most  in¬ 
terested,  might  seem  a  bad  omen  of  their  happy  union,  yet  it 
did  not  interfere  with  the  determinations  of  all  to  get  married  on 
the  day  appointed.  Love  scenes,  continually  occurring,  in  the 
mean  time  predominated  over  every  other  sentiment.  In  fact  and 
truth,  as  mutual  distrust  had  not  assumed  any  certain  shape,  the 
young  people  wished,  with  their  hearts  and  souls,  for  the  tenth 
day  of  November. 

In  its  own  good  time,  and  just  as  regularly  and  as  slowly  as 
if  they  had  cared  nothing  about  it,  the  day  came  at  last.  It 
was  as  black,  as  stormy,  and  as  comfortless,  as  if  it  had  made 
up  its  mind  to  treat  them  and  their  raptures  with  surly  con¬ 
tempt.  But,  notwithstanding  its  seeming  disapproval,  all  else 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


173 


rras  brilliant  in  readiness  and  attendance  upon  the  happy  young 
people.  In  vain  did  it  send  its  ruffian  blasts  to  course  round  the 
battlements  of  the  old  building,  to  shake  its  old  casements,  or 
even  to  bluster  down  its  old  chimneys.  Within  every  voice 
spoke,  or  tried  to  speak,  in  softest  accents  ;  groups  of  ladies, 
young  and  beautiful,  only  stood  at  the  windows  to  wonder  at  its 
violence  ;  men,  brave  and  noble,  warmed  themselves  at  the  blaz¬ 
ing  hearth  it  could  not  chill. 

At  midday,  the  guests  were,  indeed,  all  met  in  the  grand 
withdrawing-room  of  Antrim  Castle.  The  bridegrooms,  con¬ 
scious  and  joyous,  yet  trying  not  to  seem  either,  sat  from  time 
to  time,  with  the  different  sets  of  ladies  who  had  come  to  witness 
and  envy  their  happiness  ;  or  ventured  among  the  veteran  group 
of  their  own  sex  who  surrounded  Lord  Antrim,  to  hear  and  suf¬ 
fer  as  they  might,  all  the  jests  that  could  apply  to  their  case. 
The  brides  were  in  their  chambers,  with  their  husbands,  awaiting, 
in  unimaginable  palpitations,  their  summons  from  the  lady  of  the 
mansion.  The  latter,  dividing  herself  among  her  guests,  glided 
from  party  to  party,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  dimpled  mouth, 
saying,  in  half  whispers,  such  pretty  and  appropriate  things,  as  set 
many  a  young  lady  at  her  best  to  look  grave,  while  others  only 
blushed,  and  some  laughed  outright. 

The  hour  was  come  ;  every  thing  was  ready  ;  and  every  person 
in  attendance,  except  one.  The  Reverend  George  Walker  had  not 
yet  arrived.  And,  as,  under  the  circumstances  of  the  parties, 
his  agency  was  required  to  make  the  ceremonies,  even  after  the 
ministry  of  the  Catholic  priest,  satisfactory  to  all,  nothing  could 
be  entered  upon  without  him.  A  disagreeable  pause,  therefore, 
occurred,  unrelieved  by  the  former  willingness  to  wait.  As  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  the  gentleman’s  arrival,  although  past  his 
time,  it  was  not  even  made  exciting  by  fears  of  a  disappointment. 

Hour  after  hour  thus  wore  away.  The  black  and  tempestuous 
November  night  closed  in,  even  prematurely  for  the  time  of  the 
year.  Lights  were  ordered  for  the  apartment ;  and  still  Mr. 
Walker  came  not.  It  was  past,  much  past  dinner  hour,  too.  A 
banquet,  prepared  with  munificence  on  the  part  of  the  noble 
hosts,  and  with  great  care  and  labor  on  the  part  of  his  culinary 
servants,  was  spoiling.  The  lower  regions  of  the  castle  were  all 
but  in  open  mutiny,  and  this  consideration,  joined  with  others, 
made  even  the  noble  hostess  impatient. 

As  the  lights  were  brought  into  the  room,  a  horseman  passed 
•he  drawbridge. 


174 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  ’Tis  he  !”  cried  Edmund  ;  “  I  know  his  dark  cloak.” 

Every  one  bustled ;  a  loud  knocking  reverberated  through  the 
castle.  The  doors  were  flung  open  ;  and — Friar  O’Haggerty 
entered  the  apartment. 

“  I  give  you  joy,  my  lord  of  Antrim,”  he  exclaimed,  the  moment 
he  appeared  at  the  door,  and  speaking  rapidly,  and  with  much 
excitement,  as  he  walked  up  the  room — “  And  you,  my  lord  of 
Iveagh,  and  you,  gentlemen,  and  you,  Edmund  M’Donnell — the 
joy  I  ask  you  to  give  me,  for  my  tidings.  The  invader’s  fleet  has 
been  beat  back  by  the  winds  of  Heaven  from  the  shores  of  Eng 
land,  and  obliged  to  return  to  Holland,  in  such  a  plight,  as  ends 
all  rebellious  hopes  for  the  present.” 

“  Long  live  King  James  !”  cried  Lord  Antrim.  His  friends 
echoed  him  ;  even  the  ladies  joined  in  the  cheer.  “But  is  the 
news  certain  ?” 

“  Here  are  my  letters — received  but  this  morning,  though  they 
should  have  come  to  hand  many  days  ago.  I  need  uot  add  from 
whom  they  are — but  you  may  depend  on  them.” 

“  The  wind  is  Papist,  at  last,”  said  the  gaunt  and  grim  lord 
of  Iveagh. 

“His  majesty’s  very  words,”  resumed  the  friar,  “  the  moment 
he  heard  the  news  in  England.” 

“  And  I  may  now  go  home  and  dismiss  my  shaggy  Mourne 
mountaineers,”  added  Iveagh. 

“  Have  a  care  of  that,  my  lord,”  said  the  friar,  “  the  king  is 
still  resolved  on  his  former  point  of  privilege,  and  before  my 
advices  left  England,  had  proved  his  resolution  by  his  acts.  In 
order  to  make  some  show  of  prudence,  when  the  intentions  of 
the  invader  were  first  made  certain,  his  majesty  caused  to  be 
posted,  on  the  gates  of  Magdalen  College,  a  declaration  of  his 
withdrawing  of  the  righteous  Farmer,  whom  he  had  forced  them 
to  accept  as  fellow,  in  place  of  their  own  elected  minion, 
Hough.  But  no  sooner  came  to  him  the  happy  news  of  this 
providential  wreck,  than,  guided  by  his  good  advisers,  he  had 
it  torn  down  again — ” 

“  Accursed  be  his  advisers,  sir !”  interrupted  Edmund  M’Don- 
nell,  who,  upon  O’Haggerty’s  first  announcement  of  a  hope  of 
peace,  had  grasped  Evelyn’s  hand  to  congratulate  him,  and 
receive  his  congratulations.  But  the  friar’s  additional  news 
made  them  pause  to  listen,  and  now  elicited  Edmund’s  vehement 
malediction. 

“  Amen  !”  echoed  Lord  Iveagh.  “We  do  not  ask  such  counsels.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  175 

“  Do  not  curse  them,  whoever  they  are,”  said  Lord  Antrim. 
“Just  call  them  bad  politicians.” 

The  friar’s  face  reddened,  and  he  was  about  to  make  an  angry 
rejoinder.  But  the  countess  entering  the  room  with  an  import¬ 
ant  air,  pressed  her  finger  on  her  lip  in  passing  him,  and  walking 
up  to  Evelyn,  took  him  aside. 

“  The  brides,”  she  said,  smiling,  “  do  not  want  this  reverend 
truant,  Mr.  Walker.  I  have  just  visited  them.  And  though  1 
bear  you  no  message  or  greeting,  I  will  be  your  warrant  that, 
at  my  summons,  they  speedily  meet  you  in  the  chapel,  where  old 
Priest  McDonnell  has  been  shivering  these  many  hours.” 

“  Then,  dear  lady,  the  round  world  for  your  summons  !  Since 
the  reverend  gentleman  has  not  been  able  to  keep  his  word,  we 
must  defer  to  another  time  what  satisfaction  he  can  bestow.” 

“  To  the  chapel,  dames,  maidens,  and  gallants,  all  !”  cried  the 
lady,  instantly  turning  from  him  to  the  company,  and  much  de¬ 
lighted,  for  many  reasons.  Then  she  once  more  bustled  grace¬ 
fully  out  of  the  apartment  ;  and  bridegrooms  and  guests,  led  by 
Lord  Antrim,  trooped  down  to  the  chapel. 

It  was  a  low  building,  detached  from  the  castle,  but  accessible, 
at  both  sides,  near  the  altar,  by  doors  which  were  approached, 
under  covered  ways,  communicating  with  the  main  pile.  Through 
one  of  these  doors,  the  numerous  party  from  the  withdrawing- 
room  entered.  Almost  at  the  same  time,  the  brides,  led  by  their 
hostess,  and  attended  by  their  bridesmaids  and  other  friends,  ap¬ 
peared  at  the  opposite  door.  The  chapel,  brilliantly  illuminated 
by  large,  hanging  branches,  and  ornamented,  near  the  altar,  with 
draperies  of  virgin  white,  and  garlands  of  flowers  and  evergreens, 
had  a  character  at  once  joyous  and  impressive.  On  the  altar  it¬ 
self,  the  tall  wax  tapers  diffused  their  soft  pure  radiance  about 
the  sacred  place,  where  vows  were  presently  to  be  exchanged, 
blessings  said,  and  prayers  offered  up  for  the  earthly  and  eternal 
weal  of  four  young  and  newly-wedded  people.  Its  steps,  and  the 
platform  they  gained,  were  covered  by  a  crimson  footcloth, 
richly  fringed  and  embroidered  with  gold.  On  this  platform  sat 
old  Father  M’Donnell,  wearing  his  priest’s  undress,  if  so  it  may 
be  called — the  surplice,  stole,  and  alb.  His  book  was  on  his 
knee.  He  rose,  though  trembling  with  palsy,  as  the  company 
entered  the  consecrated  house. 

The  only  thing  that  interfered  with  the  solemn  and  quiet 
native  of  the  place,  and  of  the  ceremonies  to  be  solemnized  in  it, 
was  the  continued,  and,  indeed,  increased  violence  of  the  weather. 


176 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


It  blew  a  very  hurricane  ;  and  the  rain  beat  with  such  force  upon 
the  roof,  and  against  the  windows  of  the  solitary  little  chapel,  as 
to  fill  its  interior  with  uuintermitted  and  almost  alarming  sounds. 
Through  the  low  windows,  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  ground,  the 
night  abroad  seemed  raven-black. 

Scarcely  had  the  brides  appeared  at  the  door  opposite  that 
through  which  the  bridegrooms  and  their  party  entered,  when 
Evelyn,  attended  by  Edmund  M’Donnell  as  his  bridesman,  and  by 
the  old  earl  of  Antrim  himself,  advanced  to  Eva,  took  her  hand, 
and  led  her  towards  the  altar.  The  earl’s  lady  held  her  other 
hand,  and  her  fair  young  bridesmaids  clustered  round  her.  All 
entered  the  railed  sanctuary,  ascended  the  steps  of  the  altar,  and 
stood  on  the  platform.  A  few  moments,  and  Evelyn  and  Eva 
M’Donnell — according  to  the  forms  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church — were  married. 

In  their  turn,  Edmund,  his  bridesman,  and  his  old  father,  ad¬ 
vanced  to  Esther.  The  hand  he  took  in  his  was  cold  and  trem¬ 
bling  ;  the  veil  she  wore  did  not  hide  her  raining  tears,  nor  her 
blanched  cheek  and  ashy  lips.  As  tenderly,  gracefully,  and 
proudly,  he  led  her  to  the  sanctuary,  she  stumbled,  and  had 
nearly  fallen,  in  the  effort  to  gain  the  single  step  that  elevated  it 
above  the  floor  of  the  chapel.  Passing  close  by  a  side-window, 
just  at  the  altar,  she  started,  shrank,  and  uttered  a  low  scream. 
Edmund  looked  at  the  window.  It  was  black  and  blank,  and  no 
cause  appeared  for  Esther’s  terror,  though  now  she  was  shivering 
so  violently  as  almost  to  swoon  away.  Assisted  by  her  lover, 
her  noble  hostess,  and  her  startled  bridesmaids,  she  gained,  at 
length,  the  platform  of  the  altar.  The  white-headed  and  palsied 
priest  again  opened  his  book,  and  began  the  second  marriage 
ceremony.  A  clattering  of  horse-hoofs  was  heard  without,  and 
involuntarily  he  paused.  Next  moment,  a  small  door  at  the 
remote  end  of  the  building,  through  which  the  peasantry  around 
used  to  enter  to  mass,  was  flung  open,  giving  egress  to  a  gust  of 
storm,  so  furious  that  it  extinguished  nearly  all  the  lights  in  the 
chapel.  Aud  with  the  stonn-gust  came  in  a  man,  enveloped  in  an 
ample  riding-cloak,  who  walked  straight  up  the  aisle  to  the  altar, 
holding  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  As  he  gained  the  altar,  all 
recognized  the  Rev.  George  Walker. 

“You  are  late,  Mr.  Walker,”  said  Evelyn,  who  now  stood 
outside  the  rails. 

“  Am  I  too  late  ?”  asked  Walker,  eagerly. 

“  I  present  you  to  my  wife,  sir.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  177 

“  There  has  been  a  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church  here  ?” 

“  No,  sir  ;  you  know  we  expected  but  you.” 

“  All  is  right,  then,”  said  Walker  exultingly.  “  It  is  no  mar¬ 
riage.” 

“  Insolent !”  cried  Lord  Antrim.  “  Proceed  with  the  cere¬ 
mony,  Father  M’Donnell.”  As  he  spoke  a  servant  hastily 
entered  the  side-door,  and  approached  his  lord  with  a  packet. 

“Let  him  1”  Walker  retorted  with  a  sneer.  “But,  first,” 
holding  out  the  open  letter,  “  let  all  try  the  effect  of  this — 
William,  the  Deliverer,  has  landed!” 

The  whole  company,  including  those  at  the  altar,  and  even  the 
old  priest  before  them,  started. 

“  It  is  false !”  cried  the  friar,  with  passion. 

“  By  the  holy  saints,  it  is  too  true !”  exclaimed  Antrim.  The 
usurper  landed  at  Torbay  on  the  5th !  You  were  late  with  your 
first  news,  reverend  friar.  You  make  mysteries  of  your  dis¬ 
patches.  But  read  that,”  handing  him  the  paper  he  had  himself 
just  perused.  “  Here,  fellow” — to  the  servant  who  was  retiring 
— “let  my  people  know  this  intelligence  instantly.  Dispatch 
horse  and  man  around.  Care  not  for  the  night — the  signals — 
the  beacons  !  Fire  that  on  the  castle’s  top,  that  on  the  bay’s 
edge,  and  that  on  the  brow  of  Little  Deer-Park.  Let  them  an¬ 
nounce  it  to  Ballygelly  Head  and  the  Point  of  Garron — they  to 
the  Fair  Head  and  Bengore — and  round  let  it  flame  to  Old  Dun- 
luce.  So  that,  by  the  morning’s  dawn,  all  true  men  may  be  stir¬ 
ring  for  their  true  king  and  master!  Meantime,  on  with  the 
ceremony — though  brides  and  bridegrooms  are  like  to  have  a 
flaming  nuptial  torch.” 

“  Proceed,  Father  M’Donnell,”  said  Edmund. 

“  Stop,  Edmund  M’Donnell,”  cried  O’Haggerty.  “  Dishonor 
not  your  name  and  blood — insult  not  your  holy  religion,  now  in 
peril — endanger  not  your  life,  by  taking  to  your  bosom  the 
stranger,  the  traitoress,  and  the  heretic.  Come  down  from  the 
altar,  I  say  ;  think  only  of  the  cause,  which,  by  virtue  of  the 
royal  commission  you  hold — ” 

“  What,  Edmund !”  interrupted  Evelyn,  starting  forward  ; 
“  the  royal  commission !  What  does  this  mean  ?” 

“  It  means,”  said  Eva,  calmly,  “  that  my  brother  is  a  commis¬ 
sioned  officer  in  the  service  of  his  king.” 

“It  means,”  said  Walker,  “as  I  told  you,  Evelyn,  that  he  is 
one  of  those  traitors  to  Protestant  ascendancy,  in  Church  and 
State,  commissioned  and  sworn  to  cut  your  throat,  and  mine  1 

8* 


178 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Ay,  let  him  come  down,  as  his  old  counsellor  advises.  And  call 
you  your  sister,  at  the  same  time — ” 

“Eva!”  resumed  Evelyn,  in  much  agitation,  “knew  you  of 
such  a  secret  engagement  ?” 

“  I  did,”  she  answered.  “  What  if  I  did  ?” 

“  This  is  disingenuousness — treachery  !”  he  exclaimed.  “  I  am 
betrayed  even  at  the  altar  !” 

“Treachery  !  betrayed,  Evelyn  !”  Eva  repeated,  letting  go  his 
arm,  and  stepping  back  haughtily. 

“  Betrayed  you  are  1”  said  Walker,  catching  his  arm — “even 
as  I  foretold  it  would  be.  Rouse  yourself,  like  a  man  and  a 
Christian,  and  at  last  act  as  becomes  you.  “  Robert  Evelyn,” 
he  continued,  in  a  loud  and  impressive  voice,  “  I  command  you, 
in  the  name  of  your  Church,  and  of  him  who  is  come  as  your 
king,  to  rescue  your  father’s  daughter  from  the  pollution  of  a 
traitor’s  arms,  and  to  lead  her,  after  me,  from  this  idolatrous 
roof  !  Think  of  the  pledge  you  have  given  to  me  and  to  your 
country — the  pledge  that  is  registered  against  you,  and  that  you 
hold  in  your  keeping — ” 

“  What  pledge  does  he  mean  ?”  asked  Eva,  in  her  turn. 

“  One,  madam,  which  makes  him  a  soldier  of  the  faith,  and 
arms  him  with  a  sword  against  ail  Papists,”  replied  Walker. 

“  One  destined  to  be  reddened  in  our  blood,”  added  O’Hag¬ 
gerty. 

“  What,  Evelyn  !”  Eva  burst  forth.  “  And  you  talk  as 
treacherous  of  the  accepting  and  holding  of  a  lawful  commission 
from  a  lawful  sovereign,  while  you  enter  into  an  unauthorized 
contract  with  the  deadly  foes  of  that  sovereign,  and  of  us  all.  A 
contract,  God  knows  of  what  nature !  Hither,  Edmund,  hither  !” 

Her  words,  and  still  more  her  looks,  incensed  the  young  man 
beyond  control.  He  turned  white,  then  fiery  red,  then  white 
again.  He  stamped  his  foot,  his  eyes  flashed  back  a  look  of 
anger  ;  scarce  sensible  of  what  he  said,  he  addressed  his  sister. 

“  Esther  Evelyn  !”  he  cried,  “sister!  I  call  upon  you  to  stand 
beside  me,  your  brother  !” 

“  Sister,  obey  your  brother’s  voice  !”  cried  Walker  ;  “  and — ” 

“  Edmund  M’Donnell !  Loose  the  girl’s  hand  and  let  her 
go  !”  echoed  the  friar. 

“  Scandalous  men  !”  said  the  old  priest  from  the  altar,  “inter¬ 
rupt  not  the  conferring  of  a  sacrament — tear  not  asunder  those 
whom  God  is  about  to  make  one.  Peace,  and  let  the  marriage 
be  done.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


179 


“  Nay,”  resumed  Eva,  still  addressing  Evelyn,  after  a  pause 
of  fearful  agitation — “  if  thus  you  proceed,  Evelyn — if  your  own 
voice  be  raised  to  cancel  the  engagements  of  my  brother  with 
your  sister  ;  if  here,  at  the  altar,  you  call  us  traitors  and  be¬ 
trayers,  never  shall  she  or  you  have  cause  to  repeat  the  word 
elsewhere.” 

“  How  !”  cried  Edmund,  who  had  at  last  descended,  leaving 
Esther  supported  by  her  bridesmaids.  “  Traitors  and  betrayers  ! 
who  dares  speak  the  words  ?” 

“  Dares  !  I  spoke  them  !”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  Betrayer  and  traitor,  yourself  !”  retorted  Edmund — “  you, 
as  it  at  last  appears,  a  secret  plotter  against  your  king,  and 
against  the  very  friends  who  would  take  you  to  their  bosom  !” 

Evelyn  sprang  to  the  altar,  and  seized  his  sister’s  cold  hand. 
“  I  forbid  this  marriage  !”  he  said. 

“  And  I,”  cried  Eva  M’Donnell,  “  renounce  the  former  one. 
Your  own  priest,  there,  has  told  you  that  it  is  invalid.  Think  it 
so — and  farewell,  Evelyn,  forever  !  Brother,  your  hand.” 

“  Be  that  as  it  may,”  Evelyn  shouted,  now  completely  beyond 
himself  ;  “  Esther  shall  never  be  the  wife  of  a  false  traitor  !” 

“  Never  !”  repeated  a  screaming,  discordant  voice  at  the  side 
window,  accompanied  by  a  loud  and  frantic  clapping  of  hands. 
The  sounds  deprived  Esther  of  the  little  self-possession  she  had  : 
she  sank  senseless  into  her  brother’s  arms.  A  glare  of  red  light 
broke  through  all  the  windows  into  the  chapel ;  and  as  the  roar¬ 
ing  of  the  beacon  blaze,  abroad,  mingled  with  the  beating  of  the 
heavy  rain,  and  the  continued  howling  of  the  hurricane,  Onagh’s 
screams,  and  the  wild  clapping  of  her  hands,  might  be  heard 
above  every  other  sound.  While  her  pallid  face  appeared  now  at 
one  window,  now  at  another,  and  her  “  Never  !  never  I”  rising 
above  the  roof  of  the  chapel,  seemed  to  be  a  tongue  of  the 
tempest. 

A  few  moments  later,  Evelyn  and  Walker,  bearing  between 
them,  even  through  the  fury  of  the  night,  the  insensible  Esther, 
left  Antrim  Castle,  to  seek  shelter  in  the  adjacent  hamlet  of 
Glenarm. 


180 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  shock  Esther  received  in  mind  and  heart  had  an  install 
taneous  and  continuous  effect  on  her  health  ;  and  her  brother 
soon  perceived  it  would,  for  some  time,  be  impossible  to  remove 
her  from  the  village  of  Glenarm,  notwithstanding  the  indifferent 
accommodation  of  the  place. 

Mr.  Walker  remained  with  them  three  or  four  days,  during  which 
few  allusions  were  made  to  recent  occurrences.  The  feelings  or 
views  of  all  were  too  deep  to  be  trusted  to  immediate  utterance. 

But  the  scenes  of  bustle  in  the  village  around  them  continued 
"ofeed,  more  amply  than  perhaps  words  could  have  done,  the 
roignant,  though  stupefied  reveries  of  Evelyn.  The  new  levies, 
hitherto  but  tardily  carried  on,  were  now  evidently  engaged  in, 
even  in  so  remote  a  district,  with  zeal  and  vigor.  Bodies  of  re¬ 
cruits,  some  in  half-uniforms,  some  half  naked,  and  shouting  to 
the  screams  of  the  bagpipes,  hurried  through  the  streets  to  be 
reviewed  or  drilled  on  the  esplanade  before  Antrim  Ca^tl® 
Military-looking  horsemen,  obviously  bearers  of  expresses  to  the 
earl,  dashed,  from  time  to  time,  towards  the  drawbridge.  Old 
men  gathered  in  groups  through  the  village,  and  spoke  to  each 
other  mysteriously,  and  in  whispers.  Women,  old  and  young, 
spoke  in  the  shrillest  key,  when  they  met  by  two  and  threes,  out 
of  doors,  or  ran  to  and  from  each  other’s  houses.  All  the  ur¬ 
chins  and  curs,  conscious  of  a  time  of  unusual  uproar,  piped  and 
and  barked,  in  pure  animal  sympathy.  And  every  anvil  in  the 
village  rang  from  morn  to  night,  with  the  rapid  and  rude  manu¬ 
facturing  of  skeins  and  half-pikes. 

The  sojourners  could  learn,  too,  that  a  considerable  body  of 
Scotch  Highlanders,  whom  Lord  Antrim  held  at  his  disposal, 
either  were  expected  to  land,  or  had  actually  landed  from  the 
opposite  shore,  in  order  to  join  the  army  his  lordship  was  raising 
among  his  own  people.  These  were  to  form  the  most  important 
portion  of  his  force.  For  though  he  bore  the  sounding  title  oi 
colonel  of  the  Antrim  army,  few  men  in  the  county,  apart  from 
the  primitive  population  of  Glenarriff,  and  those  immediately  de¬ 
pendent  on  the  earl,  could  be  found  heartily  disposed  towards  the 
cause  of  their  tottering  sovereign.  Yet,  comparatively  insignifi¬ 
cant  as  might  be  the  hasty  levy  thus  attempted,  the  vexy  first 
movement  of  the  army  resulting  from  it,  caused,  as  shall  b* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


181 


Been,  the  first  timid  act  of  hostility  against  King  James,  on  the 
part  of  his  Irish  Protestant  subjects. 

“  These  precipitate  recruitings  among  so  barbarous  a  people,1 n 
said  Mr.  Walker,  as,  on  the  third  day  after  their  sudden  depart¬ 
ure  from  Antrim  Castle,  he  and  Evelyn  stood  observing  a  detach¬ 
ment  of  men  who  marched  by,  “  cannot  harm  us,  if,  indeed,  we 
act  promptly  and  spiritedly  for  self-preservation.  The  whole  of 
my  Lord  TyrconnelPs  disposable  force,  in  the  hour  the  deliverer 
landed,  did  not  amount  to  more  than  nine  thousand.  Half  or 
these  he  has  dispatched,  as  my  letters  inform  me,  to  the  assist¬ 
ance  of  his  master  in  England  ;  and  in  Dublin  and  the  north 
alone,  there  are,  under  Providence,  sufficient  good  men,  with  arms 
in  their  hands,  too,  to  oppose  the  exterminating  views  of  our 
own  sworn  enemies  ” 

“  Yes,  sir,  should  we  be  called  on  to  offer  resistance  to  attack,” 
said  Evelyn. 

“  Doubtless.  But  see,  another  swarm  of  those  wretched,  though 
cruel  people  !  Know  you  not  the  face  of  the  officer  at  their  head  ?” 

Evelyn,  all  his  recollections,  feelings,  and  passions  coming  at 
once  on  his  heart,  hid  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  turned  from 
the  window  as  he  recognized  Edmund  M’Donnell.  The  body  he 
commanded  was  composed  of  Highlanders,  wearing  the  kilt,  to¬ 
gether  with  such  of  the  people  of  Glenarriff  as  retained,  in  most 
perfection,  the  Scottish  costume.  Edmund  himself,  as  well  as 
his  elder  relative  and  commanding  officer,  Daniel  M’Donnell,  of 
Layde,  had  also  assumed,  as  if  in  compliment  to  their  men,  the 
kilt,  plumed  bonnet,  and  plaid.  “  Hurrah  for  the  redshanks  !” 
shouted  the  boys  and  women,  as  they  passed  by  ;  using  a  High¬ 
land  appellation,  by  which  the  whole  of  Lord  Antrim’s  celebrated 
regiment  was  afterwards  distinguished. 

A  man,  who  seemed  to  have  ridden  hard,  rapidly  entered  the 
room,  presenting  a  letter  to  Mr.  Walker.  They  exchanged  a 
significant  regard  as  the  clergymen  broke  the  seal  of  his  dispatch. 

“  God’s  will  be  done !”  he  said,  when  he  had  read  it.  “  I  must 
leave  you,  Robert  Evelyn.  The  affairs  of  my  parish — of  my 
own  people — require  my  immediate  presence.  But  if  you  are 
warned  by  the  advices  I  have  offered  you,  not  to  remove  your 
sister  for  some  weeks,  and  then  to  remove  her  to  Derry,  we  shall 
meet  here  again,  and  I  will  escort  you,  through  the  perils  of  the 
road,  to  that  loyal  city,  where,  if  there  be  rest  or  peace  in  Ire¬ 
land  for  such  as  we  are,  she  will  surely  find  both.  Do  you  prom¬ 
ise  to  abide  my  return  ?” 


182 


THE  BOYKE  WATER. 


“  For  my  sister’s  sake,  yes,  Mr.  Walker.  But  what  :>crils  can 
we  fear  on  the  road  ?  There  is  yet  no  warfare  in  our  country  ; 
no  invader,  with  a  foreign  army  ;  no  native  array  on  his  side. 
King  James  yet  commands  the  allegiance  of  all  his  Irish  sub¬ 
jects,  and  apparently  enjoys  it.  There  is  even  no  confirmation  of 
the  reported  design  to  destroy  or  harm  us,  which  you  have  be¬ 
fore  mentioned.  What,  then,  can  we  apprehend  ?  What  are 
your  perils  of  the  road  ?” 

“  A  little  time  will  answer  you.  To-morrow,  or  the  day  after, 
must  give  us  notice  of  the  successes  of  William  in  England  : 
here,  at  home,  important,  and  to  us  terrible  things,  are  also  hast¬ 
ening  to  a  disclosure.  Trust  me,  my  return  to  Glenarm  promises 
you  much  information  and  counsel.  For  the  present,  your  hand, 
and  farewell.” 

“  One  parting  word,  sir.  I  ask  you,  as  a  man  of  honor,  is  it 
now  intended  to  organize  the  northern  associations  of  which  you 
have  advised  me,  against  our  sovereign,  King  James?” 

“That  question  I  have,  by  anticipation,  resolved.  No  such 
design  is  professed,  or  intended  to  be  professed.  We  arm  our¬ 
selves,  and  get  together,  only  in  natural  precaution  against  the 
conspiracy  directed  towards  our  properties  and  lives,  which,  from 
many  good  sources,  there  is  cause  to  believe,  but  too  certain, 
and  which  a  short  time  will  prove  or  gainsay.  Meanwhile,  during 
the  increased  arming  of  Papists,  of  which  you  are,  yourself,  a 
witness,  shall  we  not  increase  our  own  strength  in  proportion  ? 
Shall  we  not  stand  upon  our  guard,  in  counsel  and  courage,  to 
the  extent  in  which  we  are  threatened  ?  Farewell,  I  say,  and 
fear  not  to  fall  by  my  guidance.” 

Evelyn  saw  the  clergyman  depart  without  personal  regret,  and 
yet  with  disquietude.  Mr.  Walker  was  the  chief  cause  of  the 
extraordinary  steps  he  had  recently  taken.  He  seemed  to  pos¬ 
sess  a  right  to  influence  him  ;  the  right  of  years,  experience, 
friendship  for  his  father,  conscientious  conviction,  and  religious 
zeal.  At  least,  Evelyn  endeavored  to  think  so.  And  so  long 
as  he  stood  by  his  side,  the  young  man  half  assured  himself  he 
had  acted  properly,  whatever  might  have  been  the  terrible  sac¬ 
rifice  of  private  feeling  in  his  own  breast,  or  in  those  of  others. 
But  he  was  uneasy  at  being  left  alone  to  the  unassisted  survey  of 
the  past.  On  the  other  hand,  nature  continually  claimed  from 
him  that  survey.  He  doubted — and  what  anguish  was  the 
doubt  I  even  whilst  he  argued  himself  into  self-approbation  ; 
although  he  feared,  he  yearned  to  examine  his  own  heart.  Auc 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


183 


this,  assisted  by  an  indifference,  if  not  a  dislike,  to  the  person  of 
his  adviser,  made  him  experience  an  involuntary  sense  of  relief 
at  his  departure 

Reflection  then  came  on  for  the  first  time  since  his  parting 
from  Eva  at  the  nuptial  altar.  Evelyn  was  a  man  of  strong  and 
deep  emotion,  though  not  showing  much  outward  or  ordinary 
semblance  of  it.  He  loved  Eva  profoundly,  adoringly  ;  the  pos¬ 
session  of  her  hand  had  been,  for  years,  his  long  dream  of  happi¬ 
ness.  Was  that  hand,  even  after  it  had  become  his,  lost  to  him 
forever  ?  If  so,  why  ?  Had  any  thing  appeared  in  her  character, 
to  give  him  self-applause  in  the  thought  of  having  deserted  her  ? 
and  as  he  did  desert  her  ? — her — his  bride,  wife.  These  reveries 
became  too  strong  for  him,  and,  rushing  from  himself,  he  started 
up  and  rapidly  entered  his  sister’s  sick  chamber. 

She  was  asleep,  and  evidently  dreaming  a  sorrowful  dream  ; 
her  white  lips  muttered  low  cries,  and  tears  gushed  from  under 
her  eyelids.  He  checked  his  step,  held  in  his  breath,  and  heard 
her  half  articulate  some  words  that  despairingly  reproached  him 
with  the  cruel  part  he  had  acted.  Her  voice  grew  stronger,  and 
her  words  more  distinct,  as  she  uttered  a  passionate  malediction 
on  the  heads  of  those  who,  trampling  on  the  affections  of  human 
nature,  had  embittered  happy  lives,  and  broken  true  hearts.  Her 
brother  did  not  refuse  silently  to  echo  her  prayer,  as,  more  agi¬ 
tated,  he  regained  his  apartment. 

lu  fact,  the  momentary  indignation  he  had  felt  against  Ed¬ 
mund,  and,  through  him,  against  Eva,  was  now  more  than  for¬ 
gotten.  The  jealousy  of  politics  subsided  :  there  are  no  politics 
in  love,  for  the  heart  of  man  gives  not  place  to  two  master  pas¬ 
sions  at  the  same  instant.  Evelyn  could  only  surrender  himself 
to  a  full  reflux  of  the  tide  of  his  former  feelings,  and  be  miserable. 
Yet  why,  he  asked  himself,  this  despair?  Although  much  was 
to  be  dreaded  from  the  spirit  and  romance  of  Eva’s  character, 
still  she  loved  him  ;  and  were  he  to  sue  and  ask  forgiveness, 
would  she  not  relent  ?  Or,  was  she  not  truly  his  wife,  and  could  he 
not  command  her  to  his  side  ?  The  laws  of  the  country  did  not, 
indeed,  recoguize  their  marriage,  but  it  was  sacred  to  Eva. 
Affection  apart,  must  she  not  tremble  at  the  sin  of  abandoning 
her  husbaud  ? 

He  called  a  servant,  and,  for  the  first  time,  sent  to  inquire 
after  Eva’s  health,  at  Antrim  Castle,  desiring  the  man  to  ask  for 
her  as  Mrs.  Evelyn.  Lord  and  Lady  Antrim  returned  for  an¬ 
swer  that  they  had  no  message  to  deliver.  He  wrote  a  note  ;  it 


184 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


was  not  received  by  the  servant.  He  walked  up  to  tne  caatlc 
himself ;  he  was  not  admitted.  Once  more  offended,  Evelyn 
returned  to  his  humble  lodgings. 

The  next  day  produced,  after  a  sleepless  night,  its  natural 
change.  Recollecting  that  his  verbal  message  had  been  most 
successful,  he  again  sent  to  inquire  if  Mrs.  Evelyn  was  yet  at  the 
castle.  The  man  came  back  to  say,  that,  after  much  hesitation, 
he  had  been  instructed  to  inform  Evelyn  that  no  such  person  as 
Mrs.  Evelyn  was  known  by  the  family.  Miss  McDonnell  had 
been  gone  some  days.  He  sent  to  ask  whither  ;  but  to  this  re¬ 
peated  inquiry  no  answer  of  any  kind  was  returued. 

Another  day  came,  and,  unable  to  control  himself,  he  mounted 
his  horse,  and  spurred  towards  Glenarriff,  concluding  that  Eva 
could  have  retired  to  no  roof  but  that  of  her  father.  As  he  en¬ 
tered  the  spacious  valley,  experiencing  that  doleful  sickness  of  the 
heart  with  which  old  objects,  that  have  been  present  to  our  joy, 
show  themselves  to  the  eye  of  sorrow,  Evelyn  was  obliged  to  ride 
close  by  a  considerable  body  of  men,  in  full  march  against  him, 
and,  at  a  particular  spot,  to  draw  up  to  let  them  pass.  Among 
them  he  distinguished  many  faces  that  had  welcomed  him  to 
Glenarriff,  on  the  first  night  of  his  visit,  but  that  now  scowled  at 
him  in  hostility  and  detestation.  In  about  the  middle  of  the  line 
marched  a  second  officer  ;  it  was  Edmund.  Their  eyes  met  ; 
Evelyn  could  not  recollect  the  expression  of  his  own,  but  those  of 
young  M’Donnell  just  glanced,  for  an  instant,  coldly  upon  him, 
and  then  turned  off  to  give  a  word  of  command  to  his  men.  It 
was  not  anger  that  Evelyn  now  felt ;  hot  tears  trickled  down  his 
cheeks  when  the  remainder  of  the  file  had  passed  by.  Some 
time  after  it  had  passed,  he  remained  motionless  ;  and,  with 
fainting  hope,  he  at  last  stood  before  the  Strip  of  Burue. 

The  irregular  ground  before  and  behind  the  house,  as  far  as 
the  base  of  the  overhanging  precipice,  was  filled  by  peasants, 
grouped  at  random,  and  in  the  act  of  receiving  from  old  M’Don¬ 
nell  supplies  of  different  kinds  of  rude  arms.  No  one  perceived 
the  stranger,  on  his  first  approach,  and  he  rode  forward,  close  to 
the  nearest  group,  and  repeatedly  addressed  them,  ere  he  was 
recognized.  Then,  however,  no  friendly  welcome  seemed  intend¬ 
ed.  At  the  first  glance  of  the  man  who  had  so  recently  insulted 
him,  old  M’Donnell.  rapidly  walked  into  his  house  and  shut  his 
door  ;  while  some  peasants,  who  at  once  knew  Evelyn’s  person, 
started  into  angry  attitudes,  spoke  vehemently  to  their  compan¬ 
ions,  in  Irish,  and  finally,  with  bent  brows  and  great  clamor. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


185 


seized  his  horse’s  bridle.  He  remonstrated,  bat  in  vain,  against 
this  show  of  violence.  They  grasped  their  half-pikes,  or  drew 
their  rusty  broadswords,  or  their  skeins,  and  closed  on  him,  cry¬ 
ing,  “  Sheese,  sheese ,  Sassenagh  /”*  when,  at  the  moment,  from 
the  top  of  the  precipice,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  came  a  scream, 
mingled  with  the  hoarse  waterfall,  and,  immediately  after,  a  cry 
of,  “  Fhon  !  fhon  /”f  Looking  up,  Evelyn  saw  the  form  oi 
Eva,  clothed  in  white,  standing  against  a  clear  blue  frosty  sky, 
a.  roval  banner  in  her  hand.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  men 
readily,  though  sullenly,  left  Evelyn  free.  With  a  sensation  of 
fear  which  almost  compelled  him  to  cry  out,  he  beheld  her  de¬ 
scend,  by  some  pathway  unobservable  to  his  eye,  zigzag  down 
the  precipice,  her  white  dress  and  her  richly  embroidered  banner 
often  mixed,  during  her  tortuous,  though  rapid  descent,  witli  the 
silver  spray  of  the  torrent. 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  at  his  horse’s  side.  He  flung  him¬ 
self  from  the  saddle,  on  his  knees,  at  her  feet.  But  Eva  only 
averted  her  head,  and,  with  repelling  arms,  haughtily  exclaimed  : 

“  Rise,  Mr.  Evelyn  !  I  am  here  but  to  save  your  life,  which, 
had  I  not  come  in  view,  a  moment  more  would  have  given  to  the 
rash  hands  of  these,  my  poor  devoted  people.  Rise,  sir,  and 
quit,  forever,  a  clan  and  a  place,  every  child  of  whom  is  athirst 
for  your  blood.  To  horse,  sir,  and  fly  !  Yet,  hold  ;  I  should, 
myself,  accompany  you.  “  Thowr  tchoom ,  ma  clioppel-bawn  /”| 
she  continued,  turning  to  the  men  ;  “  but,  first,  a  more  import¬ 
ant  duty.  Children  of  Glenarriff,  here  are  your  colors.  On  the 
edge  of  your  highest  precipice,  where  the  air  of  heaven  is  purest 
and  freest,  my  maids  and  I  have  wrought  and  mottoed  it.  Now, 
with  a  prayer  for  him  who  guards  it  well,  and  a  curse  and  a 
strange  grave  for  him  who  ever  yields  it  up,  take  it  from  a 
maiden’s  hand.” 

Their  shouts,  as  they  accepted  it,  echoed  through  the  wide 
glen.  Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  done  speaking,  her  white 
horse  was,  according  to  her  command,  led  towards  her  ;  she 
gained  her  saddle  ;  and,  with  a  word  and  a  signal  to  the  meu, 
rode  quickly  down  the  valley.  Evelyn  found  himself  compelled 
to  regain  the  saddle  of  his  own  steed,  and,  guarded  by  some 
half-dozen  armed  and  mounted  peasants,  to  follow  her  at  a  brisk 
pace. 

Glenarriff  was  cleared  in  a  short  time,  and  Eva  still  Aed  on,  by 
*  Down,  down,  Englishman  !  f  Stop.  \  Fetch  me  my  white  horse. 


186 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Red  Bay,  at  equal  speed,  until,  in  order  to  master  the  sharp  de¬ 
clivity  of  Garron  Point,  she  was  at  last  obliged  to  tighten  her 
rein.  Then  did  Evelyn  move  to  gain  her  side ;  but  owing  to 
the  prompt  and  dangerous  interference  of  the  men,  without  suc¬ 
cess.  He  addressed  them  energetically ;  he  offered  them  his 
purse  ;  in  vain.  And  thus  all  slowly  gained  the  summit  of  the 
Point,  where  Eva  at  length  paused  till  he  came  up. 

“  You  are  now  out  of  immediate  danger  from  the  people  of  my 
father’s  insulted  house,  Mr.  Evelyn,”  she  said  as  he  approached. 
“  Almost  the  whole  of  your  road  homeward  is  down-hill  ;  and  as 
these  men  shall,  at  my  command,  accompany  me  back,  keep  but 
the  vantage-ground  between  you  and  them,  and  fear  nothing  for 
your  personal  safety.  Farewell,  sir  1”  Turning  to  her  attend¬ 
ants,  she  motioned  them,  in  a  way  that  would  not  be  refused, 
to  turn  back,  standing,  meantime,  between  them  and  Evelyn. 
They  obeyed  her,  though  with  many  a  scowl  and  muttering,  di¬ 
rected  at  “  the  Sassenagh  and,  in  an  instant,  she  and  all  were 
leaving  him  alone  on  the  top  of  the  ascent,  when,  almost  inarti¬ 
culate  from  emotion,  he  began — 

“  Gracious  God,  Eva  ! — my  Eva! — Eva  Evelyn  ! — surely  this 
is  not  to  be  our  parting ! — suffer  me — ” 

“Not  a  word,  sir  I”  interrupting  him,  and  speaking  half-turned 
in  her  saddle,  while  she  scarcely  checked  her  parting  speed  ;  “not 
a  word,  sir — not  a  breath,  on  any  other  topic.  We  were  and 
are  strangers  to  each  other.  We  met  but  to  save  your  life  ;  it 
is  saved,  and  our  last  meeting  over.  Farewell — poor  traitor  to 
woman  and  to  your  king — poor  renegade  from  the  altar  and  the 
throne — perjured  in  love  and  loyalty — to  man,  to  heaven,  and  to 
me  1  Fare  you  well  !” 

She  gave  her  steed  still  freer  rein,  and  Eva  and  her  attendants 
— the  latter  adding  to  her  words,  which  they  understood  but  by 
her  tone  and  manner,  a  savage  yell  of  scorn — were  soon  lost  to 
Evelyn’s  vision  as  they  swept  by  the  windings  of  Red  Bay. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

Arrived  at  home,  and  once  more  left  to  his  reflections, 
Evelyn’s  misery  was  increased  by  the  result  of  his  unsatisfactory 
visit  to  Glenarriff.  A  portion  of  bitter  feeling,  of  newly-raised 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


187 


anger,  and  outraged  pride,  mingled  with  his  recollection  of  the 
sentiments  Eva  had  expressed  towards  him  at  her  parting.  In 
the  first  bursts  of  passion,  he  even  condemned  her  nature  as 
coarse,  masculine,  and  vindictive,  alike  incapable  and  unworthy 
of  respectful  love.  Some  days  passed  in  this  mood  ;  but,  as 
before,  it  gradually  wore  away.  Eva  returned  upon  his  view  in 
all  the  perfection  that  woman  could  or  ought  to  exhibit ;  she  had 
acted  and  spoken  to  him  but  as  he  merited  ;  it  was  he  that  was 
incapable  of  estimating  her  ;  it  was  he  that  had  sinned  to  an 
excess  beyond  her  forgiveness,  and  had  lost  sight  of  her  charac¬ 
ter  only  by  sinking  so  much  beneath  it. 

He  would  make  renewed  efforts  to  obtain  her  forgiveness  ;  not, 
indeed,  by  another  journey  to  Glenarriff,  because,  apart  from  the 
personal  hazard,  her  feelings  were  at  present  too  strongly  and 
too  justly  roused  to  allow  him  to  stand  before  her.  But  he 
would  write.  And  he  did  write  a  long,  ardent,  and  repentant 
letter.  It  was  sent  back  unopened.  Another  and  another  shared 
the  same  fate.  A  verbal  message,  the  courier  assured  him,  he 
had  vainly  striven  to  deliver.  At  last  the  man  confessed  that 
his  limbs  or  life  would  be  risked  by  venturing  any  more  to  Glen¬ 
arriff. 

Evelyn  was,  therefore,  compelled  to  bear,  as  he  could,  the 
peculiar  distress  of  his  situation.  The  news  and  reports  of  the 
day  might  have  served  to  divert  his  mind,  but  he  took  no  pains 
to  become  acquainted  with  them,  or,  when  known  by  the  gossip 
of  some  around  him,  he  paid  them  no  attention.  In  truth,  he 
detested  politics,  and  political  movements  and  persons,  because 
he  attributed  to  an  unwarrantable  intrusion  of  both  upon  his 
private  feelings  and  arrangements,  his  present  wretchedness. 
One  fact  only,  of  all  that  he  from  day  to  day  became  aware  of, 
made  an  impression  on  his  mind — namely,  the  march  of  Lord  An¬ 
trim’s  new  regiment  to  garrison  Derry,  in  lieu  of  that  which, 
on  the  landing  of  William,  had  been  dispatched  to  England 
from  that  city.  And  Evelyn  dwelt  a  moment  on  this  circum¬ 
stance,  solely  because  it  indirectly  appealed  to  his  feelings  as 
connected  with  the  movements  and  fortunes  of  the  brother  of 
Eva  M’Donnell. 

To  sit  by  Esther’s  bedside,  to  receive  from  her  physician  good 
accounts  of  her  returning  health,  to  witness  himself  a  gradual 
change  for  the  better,  and,  when  her  spirits  permitted,  to  talk 
over  with  her  a  certain  and  speedy  reconciliation  between  them 
and  their  beloved  ones — this  was  the  only  balm  for  the  wounded 


188 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


heart  of  Evelyn  ;  and,  it  may  be  added,  for  tnat  of  his  sister 
also.  She  would,  indeed,  listen  to  such  assurances  with  the  sole 
interest  of  feature  that  had  lately  brightened  her  pale  visage. 
Yet,  in  the  midst  of  her  renovated  hopes,  Esther  felt  a  gainsay¬ 
ing  of  the  heart,  which  was  visible  to  her  brother,  although  he 
iad  never  been  made  acquainted  with  its  latent  cause,  and  could 

ot  now  venture  a  satisfactory  surmise  on  the  subject. 

In  such  a  disposition  of  mind,  Mr.  Walker  found  Evelyn  and 
Esther,  when,  according  to  promise,  he  returned  to  Glenarm,  in 
something  more  than  a  fortnight  after  his  departure. 

His  usually  sedate  step  was  hurried,  as  he  presented  himself 
before  Evelyn  ;  and  his  countenance,  always  grave,  showed 
symptoms  of  much  earnestness. 

“  I  have  ridden  hard,”  he  said,  “  to  reach  you  on  the  morning 
of  this  day.  It  is  now  time,  and  more  than  time,  we  were  secure 
in  Derry.  Events  in  England,  to  mention  nothing  else,  have,  as 
you  must  know,  made  this  step  necessary  since  our  parting.” 

“In  truth,  Mr.  Walker,  I  do  not  know.  My  own  affairs  and 
my  own  sorrows  sufficiently  occupied  me,”  the  young  man  coldly 
replied. 

“  Amazing  indifference  and  lukewarmness  !”  retorted  the  cler 
gyman,  in  some  asperity  ;  “at  such  a  time  as  this  to  remain  con 
tentedly  ignorant  of  the  great  events  that  must  shape  the  fate  of 
millions  of  men,  and  your  own  among  the  number  !  You  know 
not,  then,  that  while  advanced  only  as  far  as  Exeter  to  face  James 
at  Salisbury,  the  prince  has  been  joined  by  my  lords  of  Colches¬ 
ter  and  Corn  bury,  with  the  flower  of  their  troops  ;  by  my  Lord 
Churchill — ” 

“What?”  interrupted  Evelyn,  “that  man!  the  very  growth 
of  his  sovereign’s  favor — raised  from  a  page  to  title  and  mili¬ 
tary  command,  and  ever  enjoying  King  James’s  utmost  confi¬ 
dence  !” 

“  It  is,  indeed,  a  noble  sacrifice  of  private  feelings  to  public 
virtue,”  said  Mr.  Walker. 

“  Rather  say,  of  all  that  is  good  and  honorable  in  private 
eeling,  to  the  fear  of  sharing  his  master’s  reverse  of  fortune,” 
replied  Evelyn,  indignantly.  “  A  dog  that  had  but  fed  from  that 
master’s  hand  would  shame  such  policy  !” 

“  And,”  continued  the  clergyman,  with  a  half  laugh,  “  the 
chief  officers  of  James’s  army,  who  have  not  yet  deserted  him, 
inform  his  general,  Feversham,  that  they  cannot,  in  conscience, 
draw  a  sword  against  their  deliverer.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


189 


“  I  used  to  think,  Mr.  Walker,  that  the  tenderest  conscience  cf 
a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  concerned  his  fidelity  to  the  monarch 
whose  commission  he  bore,  and  whom  he  had  sworn  to  protect.” 

“  Churchill  has  carried  over  with  him  the  duke  of  Grafton, 
the  last  living  son  of  James’s  brother  ;  Colonel  Berkley  and 
others,”  continued  Walker,  calmly  pursuing  his  object. 

“  A  bastard  nephew  may  well  show  but  a  bastard  love  and 
loyalty  to  his  king  and  his  uncle,  sir,”  sneered  Evelyn,  his  bit¬ 
ter  comments  arising  as  much  from  the  state  of  his  private 
feeliugs  as  from  a  principle  of  reasoning  or  conviction. 

“Nay,  Churchill  has  effected  more.  King  James,  alarmed 
and  terrified  by  this  geueral  defection — ” 

“  Say  shocked  and  disgusted,  Mr.  Walker.” 

“  Unable  to  confide  in  his  officers  or  his  army,  resolved  to 
march  them  back  to  London.  At  his  first  halt,  Andover,  Prince 
George,  the  husband  of  his  second  daughter,  Anne,  yielding  to 
the  representations  of  my  Lord  Churchill,  and,  with  him,  the 
young  duke  of  Ormonde,  withdrew  to  William’s  camp.” 

“  Let  the  foreign  blood  in  Prince  George’s  veins  prompt  him 
to  any  selfish  or  unnatural  act,”  said  Evelyn,  warmly,  “  but  for 
an  Ormonde  to  act  with  him  !  for  the  grandson  of  the  good  and 
illustrious  Ormonde  to  act  so  !  Alas !  his  father,  Ossary,  would 
not  have  done  this.  Nor — were  the  old  Ormonde  alive,  and  the 
youug  traitor  stretched  before  him  on  his  early  bier,  as  too  soon 
happened  to  that  noble  Ossary,  fighting  and  falling  for  a  royal 
master  ! — alas  !  Mr.  Walker,  the  virtuous  graudsire  could  not 
say  of  his  child’s  child  what  he  said  of  his  child’s  self,  4 1  would 
not  change  my  dead  son  for  any  living  son  in  Christendom.’  ” 

“  Meantime,”  rejoined  the  clergyman,  calmly  ignoring  these 
comments,  “  Lady  Churchill,  who  ever  possessed  an  influence 
over  the  Princess  Anne,  was  exerting,  at  the  instance  of  her  lord, 
all  her  powers  of  persuasion.  To  such  good  effect,  that,  on  the 
return  of  James  to  London,  he  learned  the  flight  of  his  daugh¬ 
ter  also,  accompanied  by  his  old  friend,  the  bishop  of  London, 
and,  of  necessity,  the  worthy  Lady  Churchill.” 

“  Wretched  king!”  cried  Evelyn,  “miserable  father  !  He  is 
known  to  have  loved  her  with  the  tenderest  affection  :  how  bore 
he  this  terrible  blow,  sir  ?” 

“  He  wept  aloud,”  answered  Mr.  Walker,  himself,  at  length, 
something  affected — “  he  wept  aloud,  in  the  bitterness  of  the 
father’s  agony,  crying,  ‘God  help  me!  my  own  children  have 
forsaken  me  !’  ” 


190 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  It  is  monstrous,  unparalleled  !”  continued  Evelyn,  deeply 
stirred — “  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  human  nature,  or  of  the 
human  heart.  Succeeding  generations  will  acknowledge” — 
they  have  on  all  sides  acknowledged  it — “  that  this  prince, 
whose  chief  errors  were  those  of  temper,  judgment,  and  fanati¬ 
cism,  has  met,  from  his  most  obliged  friends,  and  the  nearest 
members  of  his  family,  worse  treatment  than  even  Nero,  Domi- 
tian,  or  the  blackest  tyrants  of  the  world  ever  experienced.” 

“  I  deny  not,”  said  Mr.  Walker,  “that  apart  from  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  the  times,  he  has  been  harshly  treated.  But  he  must 
have  felt  keenest  of  all  the  general  charge  made  against  him,  at 
the  moment  he  wept  over  the  desertion  of  his  daughter,  and 
whilst  her  retreat  was  unknown,  of  having,  with  his  own  hand, 
put  her  to  death.  This,  I  will  say,  was  a  thought  too  unnatu¬ 
ral,  and  too  superfluous.” 

“  Not  too  unnatural  for  the  crowd,  maddened  by  religious  an¬ 
tipathy.  When  Oates  and  Bedlow  guided  the  national  mind,  he 
was  charged  with  the  intention  of  assassinating  his  brother  :  the 
one  view  of  things  is  but  a  revival  of  the  other.” 

“  However  that  may  be,”  Mr.  Walker  continued,  “  we  should 
now  rather  look  into  the  face  of  our  affairs  at  home.  While 
the  prince  continues  his  triumphant  march  to  London — and  so 
much,  only,  of  his  progress  do  we  yet  know — the  Papist  popu¬ 
lation  of  this  wretched  country  rise  in  thousands,  and  arm  and 
discipline  themselves  for  our  destruction.” 

“  The  old  theme,  Mr.  Walker,  without  new  proof.  That  por¬ 
tion  of  the  population  of  the  country,  which  happens  to  be  Cath¬ 
olic,  arms  itself  in  support  of  the  king,  and  at  his  express  com¬ 
mand.  How  should  this  bode  us  harm  ?  Merely  on  account  of 
a  vague  rumor,  why  should  we  seek,  by  counter-association,  to 
cross  and  divert  their  strength  and  energies  from  a  lawful  -pur¬ 
pose  ?  It  is  not  even  hinted  that  William  shall  strive  to  depose 
his  father-in-law  ;  he  and  you  say  that  his  invasion  is  but  intend¬ 
ed  to  obtain  an  arrangement  of  differences  between  the  king  and 
his  people,  and  that,  then,  all  shall  be  peace.  What  use,  there¬ 
fore,  for  a  secret  combination,  which,  if  not  directed  towards 
James’s  crown,  is  unauthorized  by  him,  and  must,  therefore,  be 
unnecessary  to  him.” 

“  As  I  have  never  spoken  of  our  association  in  a  great  politi¬ 
cal  view,  I  shall  not  do  so  now.  I  call  on  you  to  regard  it 
simply  as  a  precaution,  as  a  safeguard  in  the  night  against  the 

steps  of  the  assassin.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


l&l 


“  But  never  yet  have  you  shown  me  grounds  for  even  such  a 
fear,  or  such  a  precaution.” 

“  Look  at  this  paper,  then,  and  be  satisfied.  It  is  a  copy  of 
a  letter  found  at  Cumber,  the  present  seat  of  my  Lord  Mount 
Alexander,  and  forwarded  by  express  to  me,  as  well  as  to  many 
others  in  Dublin,  and  through  the  north,  who  are  known  to  be 
zealous  soldiers  of  the  reformed  faith.  It  is  dated  the  third,  I 
received  it  on  the  fourth,  yesterday,  and  have  lost  no  time  in 
handing  it  to  you  this  day.  Read  and  judge.” 

Evelyn  read  the  following  : 

“  Good  my  Lord — 

“  I  have  written  to  you  to  let  you  know  that  all  our  Irishmen 
through  Ireland  is  sworn  that,  on  the  ninth  day  of  this  month, 
they  are  all  to  fall  on  and  murder  man,  woman,  and  child  ;  and 
all  I  desire  your  lordship  to  take  care  of  yourself,  and  all  others 
that  are  judged  by  our  men  to  be  heads  ;  for  whosoever  of  ’em 
can  kill  you,  they  are  to  have  a  captain’s  place  :  so  my  desire  to 
your  honor  is,  to  look  to  yourself,  and  give  other  noblemen  warn¬ 
ing,  and  go  not  out,  either  night  or  day,  without  a  good  guard 
with  you,  and  let  no  Irishman  come  near  you,  whatsoever  he  be. 
So,  this  is  all  from  him  who  was  your  father’s  friend,  and  is  your 
friend,  and  will  be,  though  I  dare  not  be  known  as  yet,  for  fear 
of  my  life.” 

Here  is  quoted,  word  for  word,  the  document  that,  such  as  it 
is,  produced  the  real  or  feigned  show  of  terror,  which,  beginning 
in  professions  of  loyalty  to  King  James,  ended  in  openly  resist¬ 
ing  his  dominion  in  Ireland. 

Evelyn  paused  a  moment  after  reading  the  paper,  and,  at  last, 
Mr.  Walker,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  asked:  “What  is  your 
opiuion  ?” 

“  That  your  scrawl,  be  it  authentic  or  not,  will  serve,  until 
events  take  a  decided  aspect,  one  way  or  another,  in  England, 
to  supply,  to  our  own  party  here,  sufficient  pretence  for  annoy¬ 
ing  and  checking  King  James’s  soldiers.”  As  he  finished,  he,  too, 
looked  expressively  into  Mr.  Walker’s  face. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?”  inquired  that  gentleman. 

“This,”  said  Evelyn.  “So  long  as  James  is  king,  it  would 
be  treason  overtly  to  oppose  him.  Should  he  continue  king, 
that  treason  must  expect  to  be  punished.  Therefore,  we  now 
wisely  avoid  taking  an  open  part,  contenting  ourselves  with  such 
an  one  as,  while  it  keeps  us  safe,  will  effect  our  present  purposes.” 

“  You  cannot  deny  the  danger  that  threatens  us —you  cannot, 


192 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


in  fact,  insinuate  that  the  original  of  the  document  you  hold  ii 
your  hands  has  not  been  written  by  the  person  it  purports  to  be 
written  by  ?” 

“  It  purports  to  be  written  by  a  vulgar  Irishman  ;  but  it 
rather  seems  to  me  like  the  diction  of  a  vulgar  Englishman  ;  or, 
perhaps,  an  affectation  of  the  latter  by  an  educated  person.  It 
is,  and  it  is  not,  vulgar  ;  it  is,  and  it  is  not,  the  form  in  which  a 
vulgar  person,  of  any  country,  would  convey  himself,  on  such  a 
subject.  It  is  overdone  ;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  clumsy  imitation  of  its 
great  prototype,  the  letter  that  gave  notice  of  the  gunpowder 
treason.  I  wish  I  could  see  the  original  writing.” 

“  You  shall  see  it ;  and  when  you  do,  God  give  you  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  thinking  of  it  as  all  others  do.  Meantime,  it  is  fit 
you  should  be  informed  how  all  others  do  think  of  it.  Our  Ul¬ 
ster  Union,  hitherto  but  timidly  carried  on,  that  letter  has  con¬ 
firmed  and  extended.” 

“  That  letter,  Mr.  Walker  ?” 

“  So  that  in  the  counties  of  Down  and  Antrim  are  now  raised 
twelve  troops  of  horse,  with  my  Lord  Mount  Alexander  for 
their  colonel  ;  two  dragoon  regiments,  commanded  by  Sir  Ar¬ 
thur  Rawdon  and  Mr.  Clot  worthy  Skeffington  ;  with  four  regi¬ 
ments  of  foot,  raised  by  distinguished  gentlemen  ;  and  other 
levies  are  still  going  on  under  our  eye,  while  the  remaining  north¬ 
ern  counties  are  equally  active.  Some  motion  for  a  union  in 
Munster  has  also  taken  place.” 

“  Well,  sir  ?” 

“And  it  is  to  the  command  of  one  of  the  twelve  troops, 
headed  by  my  Lord  Mount  Alexander,  that  your  commission 
finally  appoints  you.” 

“  For  what  service,  Mr.  Walker  ?  What  is  to  be  done  V9 

“  Why  should  I  aver,  over  and  over  again,  for  the  preserva¬ 
tion  of  your  own  liberty,  property,  and  life  ?  And  the  first 
thing  to  be  done  is  to  remove  your  sister  to  a  place  of  safety. 
Can  she  yet  bear  a  rapid  journey  to  the  city  of  l)erry  ?” 

“  Her  physician  permits  it.  But  wherefore  to  Derry,  instead 
of  our  own  house  ?” 

“  Are  you  her  brother — her  only  natural  protector — and,  in 
such  a  day  of  approaching  peril,  can  you  ask  the  question  ?  I 
say,  that  of  all  places  in  Ireland,  Derry  is  the  safest,  in  case  of 
an  attack  from  the  Papists,  because  it  has  strong  walls  and 
gates,  and  never  a  Popish  soldier  in  garrison.  For  it  hath 
pleased  God  so  to  infatuate  the  councils  of  my  Lord  Tyreonnel* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


193 


that  when  the  three  thousand  men  were  sent  to  England  to  as¬ 
sist  his  master  against  the  invasion  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  he 
took  particular  care  to  send  away  the  whole  regiment  quartered 
in  and  about  that  city.” 

“  But  I  am  not  ignorant,  Mr.  Walker,  that,  two  days  before 
your  arrival,  my  Lord  Antrim  marched  his  new  levy  to  garrison 
that  very  place  ;  and  they  are  Papist,  to  a  man.” 

“  They  are.  But  as  the  roads  must,  in  this  weather,  prove 
bad  for  foot-soldiers,  they  cannot  yet  have  reached  their  quarters  ; 
nor,  if  we  now  use  speed,  can  they  reach  them  before  us.  There¬ 
fore,  let  us  dispatch.” 

“  Will  it  not  be  the  same  when  they  enter  after  us  ?” 

“  Yes,  if  they  do  enter  after  us ;  but  that,  as  well  as  all  the 
future,  is  iu  the  hands  of  Providence.  Dispatch,  I  say,  young 
man  ;  the  time  is  precious  to  all,  and  to  me,  humble  as  may  be 
the  instrument,  as  much  so  as  to  any.  I  should  not  be  here, 
away  from  more  pressing  duties,  but  that  my  heart  urges  me  to 
shield  and  guide  the  son  and  daughter  of  my  old  friend  ;  nor  can 
I  rest  here  to  waste  the  important  moments  in  watching  a  young 
man’s  humor.  Rise  up,  and  to  horse,  if  you  have  honor  for  gray 
hairs,  or  for  your  father’s  memory,  or  a  brother’s  feeling  for  your 
only  sister.” 

Thus  urged,  and  really  wishing  at  heart  to  approach  the  place 
whither  Edmund  M’Donnell  had  been  ordered,  Evelyn  rapidly 
prepared  for  the  departure  of  his  sister  and  himself  to  Derry.  In 
an  hour  eveiy  arrangement  had  been  made,  and  the  journey  com¬ 
menced.  Walker,  seeming  well  aware  of  the  route  taken  by 
Lord  Antrim’s  army,  chose  another  ;  merely,  he  said,  to  avoid 
tne  want  of  accommodation  which  must  naturally  be  created  in 
every  resting-place  visited  by  so  large  a  body  of  men.  Leaving 
tnem  to  pursue  the  more  northerly,  and,  indeed,  more  direct  way, 
which,  by  Newtownlimavady,  would  lead  them  to  Derry,  he 
6truck  into  a  road  which,  running  due  westward,  also  conducted 
the  party,  through  Ballymena  and  other  petty  villages,  to  that 
city. 

It  was  noon,  on  the  fifth  of  December,  when  the  travellers  left 
Glenarm.  Their  guide  urged  the  utmost  possible  speed  ;  so  that 
Esther  was  allowed  but  few  hours  for  repose,  during  the  night¬ 
time,  ere  her  brother  again  summoned  her  to  horse. 

On  descending,  at  about  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  to  the 
door  of  the  wretched  auberge  where  she  could  not  be  said  to 
have  slept,  she  was  startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  body  of 

9 


104 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


armed  men,  rudely  accoutred,  but  well-mounted,  woh  seemed 
waiting  upon  Mr.  Walker.  Expressing  her  apprehensions  to 
Evelyn,  she  understood  that  these  persons  had  been  summoned 
by  their  guide,  to  insure  them  safe  escort  during  the  night,  and, 
indeed,  for  the  remainder  of  their  journey. 

Their  journey  recommenced  in  pitch  darkness  ;  the  road  often 
proving  almost  impassable  from  inundations  and  from  its  marshy 
nature,  and  often  lying  through  continued  plantations  of  old  trees, 
now  laid  bare  by  the  December  blast.  The  dreary  morning 
showed,  however,  a  less  difficult  and  lonely  road  ;  and  one  ren¬ 
dered  interesting,  too,  by  its  mountain  features,  of  which  Cairn 
Togher  to  the  left,  Benbradach  to  the  right,  and  Donald’s  Hill 
and  its  continued  northern  chain  in  the  distance,  were  the  most 
imposing. 

Clearing  this  mountainous  tract,  villages  and  people  still  in¬ 
creased  ;  the  latter,  indeed,  in  such  a  number,  as  the  morning 
wore  away,  that  the  road  became  thronged  with  groups  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  driving  cattle,  or  leading  horses  which  bore 
piles  of  provision  or  of  household  furniture. 

“  They  are  flying,  like  ourselves,”  said  Walker,  “  to  the  nearest 
towns  and  strong  places,  from  the  approach  of  the  bloody  ninth 
of  December  ;  from  the  next  Sabbath,  destined  to  be  defiled 
with  their  blood.” 

As  the  travellers  hurried  along,  from  group  to  group,  every 
look  that  turned  anxiously  to  examine  them  was  one  of  ter¬ 
ror  ;  and  the  half-martial  costume  of  Mr.  Walker  and  his  escort 
visibly  created  new  alarm.  While  the  quick  tramp  and  clatter 
of  the  horses  announced  their  near  approach  to  each  party,  he 
strove  to  show  an  identity  of  interest  and  suffering  with  the 
people,  by  frequent,  ejaculations  of — “  Protestants,  be  firm  1” 
"  Gird  you  for  defence  against  the  cruel  Papists  1”  “  Haste,  loyal 
Protestants,  and  shelter  you  from  slaughter !”  In  conformity 
with  the  different  characters  he  addressed,  cries  of  fear  or  of  vio¬ 
lence,  or  exclamations  for  expedition,  arose  among  the  leaders. 
Mothers  clasped  their  arms  closer  round  the  infants  they  already 
saw  butchered  in  imagination  ;-sons  hurried  on  the  feeble  steps 
of  the  old  age  they  supported  ;  or,  rougher  characters,  as,  with 
goad  or  thong,  they  urged  forward  their  cattle,  harshly  chid  their 
wives  and  children  for  attributed  tardiness,  while  all  uttered 
threats  of  hatred  and  revenge  against  those  who  caused  them  to 
experience  the  desolation  of  flying  from  their  homes. 

Again,  some  few  huts,  inhabited  by  Roman  Catholics,  lay 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


195 


Scattered  along  the  road.  We  have  elsewhere  said  that  the  Ho¬ 
man  Catholics,  on  their  side,  expected  nothing  less  than  exter¬ 
mination  at  the  hands  of  the  Protestants  (and  certainly  with 
more  common  sense  on  their  side,  inasmuch  as  in  Ulster  the 
privileged  order  reckoned  ten  to  three  against  them).  Now 
standing  at  their  cabin-doors,  and  recognizing,  in  total  ignorance 
of  the  reasons  for  their  extraordinary  movements,  the  thronging 
groups  of  sworn  enemies,  the  wretched  people  snatched  up  their 
children,  and  ran,  howling  and  terror-stricken,  to  seek  places  of 
concealment.  While,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  the  causers  of 
their  panic,  mistaking  the  motives  of  their  hasty  retreat,  and 
supposing  it  to  portend,  in  some  way  or  other,  an  anticipation  of 
the  dreaded  ninth  of  December,  answered  them  with  cries  as 
loud,  and  increased  their  own  speed  in  treble  clamor  and  confusion. 

Nor,  after  some  further  progress  on  the  road,  was  it  to  the 
lower  orders,  on  either  side,  that  the  mutual  delusion  seemed 
limited  Esquires  and  nobles,  dames  and  gentle  damsels,  well- 
mounted,  and  gayly,  though,  in  many  instances,  hastily  and  inap¬ 
propriately  attired,  frequently  passed  the  travellers,  from  behind, 
on  their  way  to  Derry,  Coleraine,  or  some  other  more  northern 
town.  Others,  as  respectable  in  appearance,  came  on,  in  a  con¬ 
trary  direction,  flying  southward,  from  the  dreaded  presence  of 
those  who,  with  might  and  main,  with  whip  and  spur,  were  only 
running  away  from  them.  Individuals  of  both  parties  recog¬ 
nized  Mr.  Walker.  Some  among  the  Protestant  gentry  pulled 
up  to  ask  a  hasty  confirmation  of  their  fears,  which,  when  re¬ 
ceived,  sent  them  forward  in  increased  speed  and  terror.  While, 
as  the  Roman  Catholic  fugitives  consciously  fixed  their  glances 
on  him  and  his  armed  attendants,  and  received  in  return  a  scowl, 
or  a  muttered  threat  or  curse,  they  first  paced  stealthily  by,  and 
then,  at  a  clear  distance,  also  recommenced  their  flight  with  in¬ 
creased  vigor.  Many  a  gay  cavalier  plume,  many  a  disordered 
head-dress,  much  dishevelled,  though  beautiful  hair,  many  ill- 
arranged  cloaks  and  embroidered  riding-dresses,  Papist  and  Pro¬ 
testant,  fluttered  on  the  moruing  breeze.  Many  a  young  and 
pretty  face  flitted  past  its  rival  one,  as  young  and  pretty  as  itself, 
in  fright,  hatred,  and  aversion  ;  many  an  old  and  ugly  one,  as  its 
owner’s  joints  cracked,  and  her  few  teeth  chattered  from  the 
rapid  and  ceaseless  jolting  she  underwent  for  her  country  and  re¬ 
ligion,  scowling  utter  loathing  on  some  heretic  or  idolatrous  sis 
ter  visage,  which  God  wot,  was  noways  tardy  in  returning  the 
greeting. 


196 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


And  such  scenes  thickened  on  the  road,  until,  late  in  the  after* 
noon  of  the  seventh  of  December,  our  party  arrived  at  the  then 
chief  citadel  of  Protestant  power  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  the 
city  of  Derry.  A  little  town  it  was,  built  all  over  a  little  conical 
hill  ;  looking  as  unpicturesque  and  as  unimposing  as  can  well  be 
imagined  j  and  the  property,  since  the  charter  of  James  I.,  of 
certain  worshipful  persons  of  the  city  of  London.  Crossing  the 
river  Foyle  at  a  ferry  (where  the  traveller,  whom  unusual  busi¬ 
ness  or  venturesome  curiosity  may  beguile  into  a  visit  to  a  place 
so  isolated  from  intercourse  with  all  other  parts  of  the  world, 
will  now  rind  the  safer  accommodation  of  a  wooden  bridge,  seem¬ 
ingly  as  long  as  Waterloo  bridge  over  the  Thames),  our  friends 
entered  the  miniature  city  by  Ferry-quay  gate,  and  advanced  up 
a  steep  street  named  from  it,  towards  the  Diamond,  a  species  of 
square,  in  which  was  the  residence  of  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn  and  hi3 
lady. 

It  seemed  as  though  all  the  inhabitants  had  assembled,  in  dif¬ 
ferent  groups  in  the  streets,  to  converse  with  each  other  on  mat¬ 
ter  of  life  and  death.  If  one  of  our  readers  has  happened  to 
observe  the  aspect  of  a  country  town  upon  an  occasion  of  pub¬ 
lic  interest,  he  must  have  noticed  that  there  are  certain  stands 
on  which  the  humbler  classes  congregate,  as  if  by  previous  con¬ 
sent,  to  give  and  receive  information.  And,  as  in  every  circle  in 
society  some  centre  is  found,  he  will  likewise  have  noticed  that, 
in  each  of  these  parties,  there  is  one  man  who  rules  the  dis¬ 
course  ;  that,  while  the  majority  are  open-mouthed  listeners,  but 
three  or  four  speakers  can  be  heard  ;  and  that  the  admired  aud 
self-confident  Daniel  approves  of  the  opinion  offered  with  a  saga¬ 
cious  nod,  or  rejects  it  with  a  grin  of  derision. 

If  the  country  town  boast  a  corporation,  as  Derry  did  and 
does,  and  if  the  traders  and  shopkeepers  be  members  of  the  cor¬ 
poration,  as  was  the  case  when  our  travellers  entered  the  little 
northern  fastness,  at  the  same  time  that  the  lower  classes  have 
their  own  places  of  discussion,  there  is  sure  to  be  also  some  fa¬ 
vored  spot,  some  news-shop  in  the  open  air,  where  the  well-cloth¬ 
ed,  well-fed,  and  consequential  of  the  citizens  do  flock,  as  if  by 
instinct,  to  argue,  in  somewhat  better  language,  the  self-same 
topics  that  engage  the  humbler  assemblies.  In  the  former  it  will 
happen  that  superior  mind,  or,  what  has  often  passed  for  the 
same  thing,  the  assumption  of  it,  takes  precedence  ;  aud,  gen¬ 
erally  speaking,  that  such  mind  is  situated  in  the  most  ragged, 
unshaven,  and  unwashed  person  of  the  company,  because  a  man 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


197 


cannot,  in  a  breath,  be  a  diligent  mechanic  and  a  talkiug  and 
ambitious  ruler  of  the  opinions  of  others.  But  among  the  lat¬ 
ter,  that  the  longest  purse,  seldom  unaccompanied  by  the  most 
considerable  paunch,  is  the  criterion  (good  reason  why  !)  at  once 
of  oratory  and  of  wisdom.  Recollecting,  then,  these  differ¬ 
ent  pictures,  and  making  some  variation  in  costume,  such  as  long 
skirts  for  shorter  skirts,  cocked  hats  for  round  hats,  square-toed 
and  buckled  shoes  for  pointed  ones,  blue  or  carnation  clocked 
hose  for  white  or  gray  plain  ones,  perukes  or  flowing  tyes  for 
scratch-wigs  or  bob-wigs,  or  natural  hair — the  reader,  we  say, 
turning  his  eyes  from  the  several  groups  of  politicians,  rich  and 
poor,  of  his  model  country  town,  has  only  to  fix  them  on  the 
similar  groups  that,  during  the  progress  of  our  travellers  up 
Ferry-quay  street,  occupied  their  allotted  stands,  at  every  con¬ 
venient  point,  and  so  get  a  true  idea  of  the  public  commotion 
we  wish  to  place  before  him.  But  perhaps  it  has  never  been 
his  chance  to  witness  such  a  downright  fuss  as  now  reigned 
among  the  Derryanians.  For  so  many  orators  were  abroad, 
haranguing  so  many  knots  ;  with  so  many  women  and  lads, 
formed  into  parties  amongst  themselves,  and  all  talking  so  much 
and  so  loudly,  and  so  fast,  that  a  stranger,  like  Evelyn,  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  understand  a  word  spoken.  It  was, 
however,  at  once  perceptible  that  the  terrors  of  the  country 
were,  if  possible,  exceeded  by  the  terrors  of  the  town. 

A  portly  gentleman,  recognizing  Mr.  Walker,  rapidly  advanced 
from  one  of  the  superior  groups,  to  meet  him,  overheated  ahd 
out  of  breath,  though  it  was  a  December  day. 

“  Have  the  red-shanks  appeared  V ’  demanded  the  clergyman, 

“  Not  yet,  not  yet,”  answered  his  Derry  friend.  “  But  they 
quartered,  last  night,  only  twelve  miles  distant  from  us  ;  and 
instant  tidings  of  their  arrival  were  sent  us,  by  Mr.  George  Phil¬ 
lips,  describing  their  appearance,  and,  as  he  says,  *  their  evident 
intentions,’  and  counselling  us  not  to  admit  them  within  our 
walls.” 

“  Another  advice,  to  the  like  effect,  reached  us  this  morning,” 
raid  a  second  “  stout  gentleman.” 

“  And  have  you,  Alderman  Tompkins,  or  yon,  Alderman 
Norman,  yet  decided  on  the  part  you  are  to  take  V’  demanded 
Mr.  Walker. 

“No,  truly,”  they  answered  ;  “for  on  that  subject,  Mr. 
Walker,  there  are  many  opinions.  Some  of  the  younger  folk 
have  their  own  ;  and  so  has  our  excellent  bishop,  Ezekiel  Hop- 


198 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


kins.  And  so  have  we,  the  elder  and  graver  people  of  this  dis* 
tressed  city” 

A  horseman  dashed  up  the  steep  street  to  announce  that  Lord 
Antrim’s  regiment  was  approaching  the  town,  by  the  side  of 
Lough  Foyle.  Crowds  of  people,  who  had  caught  glimpses  of 
them  from  the  walls,  descended,  at  the  same  time,  and  confirming 
the  intelligence  in  loud  cries,  gathered  round  the  two  aldermen, 
Mr.  Walker,  and  his  young  friends.  Many  others  joined  them. 

“Men  of  Derry!”  Mr.  Walker  continued,  energetically  ad¬ 
dressing  the  crowd,  “  will  you  remain  undecided  as  to  the  in¬ 
stantaneous  step  to  be  taken  ?  You  know  that  the  Sabbath 
draws  on — you  know  to  what  you  are  doomed  on  that  sacred 
day.  You  know  the  people  who  now  approach  to  possess  them¬ 
selves  of  your  strong  city,  and  hold  your  very  lives  at  their  dis¬ 
posal — I  will  not  say  mercy,  for  mercy  they  have  none — all  this 
you  know,  and  do  you  hesitate  ?” 

The  crowd  remained  silent ;  except  that  a  faint  shout  came 
in  answer  from  a  number  of  boys  and  lads,  some  wearing 
aprons,  and  all  characterized  as  working  or  shop  apprentices 
of  the  city. 

u  They  know  that  King  James  is  their  king,”  said  Alderman 
Norman,  answering  for  the  people  ;  “  that  the  soldiers  who  ap¬ 
proach  are  his  soldiers  ;  and  they  naturally  fear  to  incur  the 
guilt  and  punishment  of  rebels,  by  opposing  them.  But  more  of 
this,  Mr.  Walker,  if  you  favor  us  with  your  presence  at  a  coun¬ 
cil  we  are  about  to  hold  at  the  house  of  a  worthy  alderman,  Mr. 
Paul  Evelyn,  who,  doubtless  for  good  reasons,  prefers  meeting 
us  in  his  own  dwelling  to  attending  us  at  the  usual  place.” 

“  It  was  the  very  house  I  and  my  friends  sought,”  answered 
Walker  ;  “  therefore,  lead  on.  Only  let  us  dispatch,  for  God 
leaves  us  now  but  few  moments  for  deliberation.  With  your 
leave,  my  companion,  Mr.  Robert  Evelyn,  will  also  witness  your 
debates.” 

This,  after  some  official  demur,  was  conceded  ;  and  our  friends, 
accompanied  by  the  aldermen,  and  surrounded  and  followed  by 
the  whole  crowd,  advanced  up  the  street  to  the  Diamond. 

Having  been  admitted  into  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn’s  house,  we 
pass  over  the  greetings  that  rapidly  ensued  between  niece  and 
nephew,  and  uncle  and  aunt.  We  also  leave  Esther  to  the  care, 
of  whatever  kind  it  may  be,  of  her  still-offended  relations  ;  and 
hasten  to  the  largest  room  in  Uncle  Paul’s  house,  in  which  were 
assembled,  along  with  himself,  and  those  we  are  already  aware 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


199 


of,  the  lord  bishop  of  Londonderry,  several  clergymen,  and  the 
whole  of  the  corporate  body. 

Mr.  Walker  opened  the  hurried  and  limited  consultation  by 
taking  out  his  watch,  laying  it  on  the  table,  and  calling  the  at¬ 
tention  of  the  assembly  to  the  short  period  of  time  allowed  them 
for  a  decision.  Then  he  urged,  with  more  method,  and  in  a 
calmer  manner,  the  reasonings  he  had  already  addressed  to  the 
populace. 

The  bishop  mildly  but  firmly  answered  every  argument  by 
the  one  simple  one  which  called  their  attention  to  their  oaths 
of  allegiance.  He  advised  the  soldiers  to  be  peaceably  admitted. 

His  clergymen  naturally  agreed  with  him  ;  a  single  dissenting 
pastor  supporting  Mr.  Walker.  The  elder  members  of  the  cor¬ 
poration  seemed  to  take  the  same  side  ;  leaving,  however,  their 
silence,  instead  of  their  words,  to  answer  for  them.  The  only 
alderman  who  spoke  was  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn ;  and  he,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  besought  them,  for  peace  sake,  and  for  their  own 
sakes,  to  hearken  to  the  words  of  their  bishop. 

A  few  of  the  younger  members  of  the  corporation,  alone, 
warmly  seconded  Mr.  Walker’s  advice.  But  they  seemed  over¬ 
ruled  as  well  by  the  majority  as  by  the  experience  and  rank 
of  the  council,  which,  after  a  few  minutes,  was  disposed  to 
break  up  without  coming  to  any  hostile  resolve.  Walker  grew 
pale  with  emotion  ;  bit  his  lip,  took  Evelyn  by  the  arm,  and  left 
the  room. 

“  1  had  not  cared  for  the  authorities,”  he  said,  as  they  gained 
the  street-door,  “were  but  the  slavish  crowd  disposed  to  ex¬ 
ertion.  But  see — they  have  mostly  drawn  off — not  able  to 
command  as  much  zeal,  or  patience,  or  consistency,  as  would 
serve  them  to  await  a  decision  on  which  depended  their  liberty 
and  lives.” 

The  populace  had,  indeed,  nearly  disappeared  from  before  the 
door  ;  and,  even  for  some  distance,  no  considerable  body  of  them 
could  be  seen,  except  the  groups  of  boys  and  lads,  already  men¬ 
tioned,  who,  attended  by  a  few  full-grown  men  of  the  lowest 
description,  were  now  hurrying  down  the  street,  in  order  to 
ascend  the  terra  plane  over  Ferry-quay  gate,  and  from  that 
place  witness  the  approach  of  the  soldiers. 

“Let  us  follow  them,”  resumed  Walker;  “the  lad  Davi& 
Blew  the  Goliath  ;  and  a  spirit  of  redemption  for  us  may  yet  be 
found  in  the  youthful  ardor  of  these  poor  boys.” 

As  he  and  Evelyn  accordingly  joined  the  boyish  group  on  the 


200 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


walls,  Lord  Antrim’s  regiment  had  just  defiled  along  the  oppo¬ 
site  banks  of  the  river,  accompanied  by  an  unseemly  concourse 
of  wild-looking  women,  and  half-naked  children. 

“  Ay,  look  you  over  the  water,  Will  Crookshanks,”  said 
one  of  the  lads,  overheard  by  our  gentlemen  ;  “  yon’s  the  wild 
Irish,  truly.” 

“  And  mind  you,  Jem  Spike,”  answered  Will,  drawing  his 
hands  from  under  his  linsey-woolsey  apron,  in  order  to  point 
towards  the  objects  of  his  remark  ;  “  mind  if  they’ve  not  the 
wild  Highlandmen  with  them,  too.  Fellows,  by  the  rood,  with¬ 
out  hose  or  breeches.” 

“No  friends,  I  reckon,  to  the  tailoring  craft,  Harry  Camp- 
sie  !”  resumed  James  Spike. 

“  They  be  shameless  knaves  to  look  upon,”  answered  the 
inicipient  tailor  ;  “  a  man — I  say  it — without  covering  for  his 
limbs,  is  no  sight  in  the  streets  of  a  Protestant  town,  that 
knows  better.” 

“Hosing  shuttle  never  wove  gear  for  ’em,  Dan  Sherrard,” 
continued  Spike,  addressing  a  juvenile  manufacturer  of  scarlet 
stockings. 

“  Nor  never  shall,  Jem,  with  my  liking.  Pity  to  waste  good 
yarn  for  the  decking  out  of  Papist  shanks.” 

“  Look  you,  Jem,”  said  Harry  Campsie,  “  I’d  send  them  home 
till  their  breeches  are  spun,  and  not  let  the  Derry  lasses  be 
shamed  at  such  a  sight.” 

“  And  I’d  have  them  draw  proper  hose  over  their  legs,  ere 
they  walk  them  up  Ferry-quay  street,”  echoed  Sherrard. 

“You’re  but  fools,  as  well  as  churls,  both,”  remarked  the 
person  addressed  :  “for  see  you  not  they’ll  be  asking  for  breech¬ 
es  and  hose  together,  as  soon  as  they  learn  the  difference 
amongst  us,  and  so  shears  and  shuttle  will  be  the  busier.” 

“  I’d  see  the  waters  of  yon  lough  run  smooth  over  every 
loon  of  ’em,  ere  I’d  cut  cloth  at  their  asking,”  said  the  detest¬ 
ing  tailor. 

“  The  poor  youths  but  jest  with  their  ruin,”  said  Mr.  Walk¬ 
er,  addressing  Evelyn,  but  sufficiently  loud  to  be  overheard. 
“  Yonder — Scotch  or  Irish,  as  they  may  be — yonder  are  th 
Papists,  who  have  sworn  to  wade  knee-deep  in  our  blood.” 

“  Hear  you  that,  goodmen  lads  ?”  asked  Will  Crookshanks 
who  was  a  fiery,  though  rather  taciturn  youth  ;  “  this  is  the 
reverend  gentle  who  counselled  to  leave  them  at  the  wrong  side 
of  the  gate.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


201 


“  But  our  own  good  couucil  is  against  it,”  in  solemn  accent 
demurred  Robert  Morrisson,  a  steady,  sober,  heavy-looking 
writer  to  the  single  practitioner  of  the  law  then  in  his  native 
town  ;  and  here  we  crave  the  readers  to  observe,  that  all  the 
names  we  have  mentioned,  are,  together  with  Mr.  Walker’s, 
historical  names,  and  “  immortal”  ones,  too — in  Derry. 

“  What  be  that  to  us  ?”  asked  wicked  Will. 

“  Nothing  at  all,”  answered  Jem  Spike,  winking  knowingly 
on  Dan  Sherrard,  and  bending  over  to  him  as  he  whispered 
something  additional. 

“  I  mean,  Jem,”  resumed  Crookshanks,  “  what  be  to  us  the 
fancies  or  the  resolutions  of  the  great  townfolk,  if  it  like  us  to 
take  a  thing  into  our  own  heads  ?” 

“Very  little,  I  believe,”  replied  Jem,  still  winking,  and  still 
wittily. 

“There!”  resumed  Mr.  Walker,  with  energy;  “the  first 
boat  puts  off  from  the  ferry,  bearing  to  us  the  first  band  of  our 
sworn  assassius.  Gracious  God  !  and  will  the  blind  and  sloth¬ 
ful  people  of  this  doomed  city  leave  their  gates  wide  open  to 
their  own  ruin  ?” 

“  Can’t  we  just  shut  the  gates  ourselves  ?”  queried  Crook- 
shanks. 

Boisterous  assent  was  given  by  many  voices,  amongst  whom 
were  some  apprentices  sent  over  to  Derry  by  order  of  the  Wor¬ 
shipful  London  Company,  when  it  was  resolved  not  to  admit 
Roman  Catholics  to  trade  or  set  up  business  in  their  little  colo¬ 
nial  city. 

“  The  raising  of  an  infant’s  hand  might  confound  them  1”  con¬ 
tinued  Mr.  Walker. 

“Shut  them  out  1”  was  shouted. 

“  We  are  not  to  have  our  throats  cut  so  quietly  1”  said 
some. 

“  Not  by  wild  Irish  Papists !”  said  others. 

“  They  will  burn  us  in  our  beds,  as  once  before  they  did,  in 
4*ood  London  town,”  said  one  of  the  hospital  boys. 

“  Will  you  stand  by  us,  Tom  Sexton  ?”  asked  Crookshanks,  of 
a  tall,  lubberly  man. 

“  May  I  never  pull  rope,  if  I  don’t,”  answered  the  sexton, 
with  a  professional  flourish  of  his  hand. 

“  Perchance,  rope  may  be  pulled  for  you,  to  save  you  the 
trouble,  Tom,”  jeered  Jem  Spike. 

“  And  those  at  your  back  ?”  continued  Crookshanks,  mean’ 

9* 


202 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ing  the  town-crier,  town-bailiffs,  and  some  such  humble  hangers- 
on  of  the  corporation. 

‘  O-h,  y-e-s  1”  said  the  Derry  witling,  answering  for  the  first- 
named  personage,  while  he  imitated  his  well-known  proclama¬ 
tion  tone,  and  motioned  as  if  he  held  a  bell  in  his  hand. 

“  Then  follow  me,  hearty  lads,”  shouted  Crookshanks,  taking 
off  his  working  cap,  and  waving  it  round  his  curly  red  head,  as 
he  stood  tip-toe,  up  to  the  full  height  of  sixteen  years. 

A  general  shout  answered  him.  The  soldiers,  some  of  whom 
had  debarked,  and  were  in  motion  over  the  stretch  of  ground  be¬ 
tween  the  river  and  the  walls,  supposing  the  loud  cheer  to  be 
meant  for  their  welcome,  returned  it,  waving  their  bonnets  and 
hats. 

“  You’re  but  fools  of  Papists,  after  all,”  laughed  Spike  ;  “for, 
we  mean  you  not  half  so  kindly  as  you  guess  us.”  He  was 
joined  in  his  laugh  by  the  whole  crowd  of  lads,  who,  followed  by 
their  more  mature  seconders,  raced  down  the  steps  leadiug  from 
the  wall  to  the  gate,  immediately  under  them. 

“  The  cackling  of  geese  saved  the  queen-city,”  said  Walker, 
“  and  a  like  salvation  is  in  store  for  Derry — haste  I  haste,  brave 
lads  !  the  Papists  come  on,  quickly — run,  run,  I  say  !”  In  fact, 
two  officers  entered — one,  Edmund  M’Donnell,  bearing  an  order 
to  the  sheriff  for  billets  ;  and  by  this  time  almost  the  whole 
regiment  had  landed,  and  more  than  half  approached  within 
twenty  yards  of  Ferry-quay  gate.  Walker  and  Evelyn  rapidly 
descended  after  the  youths.  When  they  reached  the  point  of 
action,  there  were  some  whose  boyish  hearts  naturally  failed 
them,  and  expostulation  and  clamor  ensued. 

“Oh!  they  but  mocked  themselves  and  us  !”  cried  Walker  ; 
“  they  do  not  their  work,  and  the  accursed  Papists  touch  the 
verge  of  the  drawbridge  !” 

But,  as  he  spoke,  and  while  the  voices  of  Crookshanks  and 
Jem  Spike  predominated  in  spirited  command  or  exhortation, 
the  raising  of  the  drawbridge,  before  the  gate,  was  heard  ;  then 
a  heavy  clash,  and  immediately  after  a  rapid  noise  of  locking, 
bolting,  and  barring.  In  another  moment  the  young  crowd 
scampered  by,  to  shut  the  other  gates,  some  serious,  some  fright¬ 
ened  at  then’  own  daring,  but  the  greater  number  chuckling  and 
laughing  in  such  a  way  as  told  that  there  was  as  much  fun  as 
patriotism,  as  much  whim  as  daring,  in  their  important  frolic. 
But,  quickly  and  securely  did  they  close  the  remaining  gates  on 
the  astonished  soldiers,  for  whom  they  never  opened.  And  thu9 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


203 


reputably  was  commenced  the  first  struggle  for  the  Prince  of 
Orange  in  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

Although  none  of  the  citizens  of  Derry,  properly  speaking, 
took  part,  or  seemed  inclined  to  take  part  in  the  affair  just  re- 
ated,  few  of  the  less  respectable  class  failed  to  second  the  young 
leaders,  when  the  gates  had  once  been  closed,  and  fewer  still  dis¬ 
approved  of  these  proceedings.  Still,  however,  none  dared  to 
acknowledge,  that  in  shutting  out  the  king’s  soldiers,  they  had 
meant  to  shut  out  the  king.  On  the  contrary,  when  Evelyn  at¬ 
tended,  the  same  night,  in  company  with  Mr.  Walker,  a  meeting 
of  the  sheriff,  aldermen,  and  citizens,  at  the  guard-house,  he 
heard  them,  in  some  surprise,  adopt  two  addresses  ;  oue,  “  To 
all  Christian  People  to  whom  these  presents  shall  come  an¬ 
other,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  their  masters,  “  The  Right  Worship¬ 
ful  the  Society  of  London  both  most  sincerely  showing,  “  that 
no  other  motives  prompted  them  to  such  a  resolution  but  the 
preservation  of  their  lives_  against  the  vast  swarm  of  Highland 
and  Irish  Papists.”  And  whilst  they  had  resolved  to  stand 
upon  their  guards,  and  defend  their  walls,  and  not  admit  of  any 
Papist  whatever  to  quarter  amongst  them,  so  they  firmly  and 
sincerely  determined  to  persevere  in  their  duty  and  loyalty  to 
their  sovereign  lord  the  king,  without  the  least  breach  of  mutiny, 
or  seditious  opposition  to  his  royal  commands. 

No  one  seemed  more  anxious  than  Mr.  Walker  to  express  and 
promulgate  these  sentiments. 

“  Are  you  not  yet  content  ?”  he  inquired  of  Evelyn,  as  they 
left  the  council. 

“  If  all  I  have  heard  be  as  true  as  it  professes  to  be  I  can 
have  but  slight  grounds  for  disapprobation,”  he  was  answered. 

Next  day,  a  considerable  body  of  the  humbler  citizens  joined 
the  apprentice  boys,  and  without  pausing  for  the  consent  of  the 
still  loyal,  or  timid,  or  cautious  Mr.  Deputy  Mayor,  the  maga¬ 
zine  was  broken  open,  and  between  one  and  two  hundred  muskets, 
a  barrel  of  powder,  and  a  proportionate  quantity  of  balls,  taken 
out  of  it ;  the  whole  stock  of  powder  in  store  being  only  seven 
barrels  Then,  lisis  were  made  of  those  in  the  city  able  to 


204 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


bear  arms,  who  did  not  amount  to  three  hundred.  And,  in  pur¬ 
suance  of  the  resolution  expressed  in  the  addresses,  and  especially 
to  take  precautions  against  the  dreaded  morrow,  the  ninth,  Mr. 
Walker  and  the  apprentice  boys  routed  out  a  whole  convent  of 
Dominican  friars,  with  O’Haggerty  at  their  head. 

“We  have  met  again,  heretic,”  said  the  young  friar  to  the 
Protestant  clergyman,  as  he  and  his  fear-stricken  brethren  stood, 
preparing  to  cross  the  ferry  at  the  river-side,  “  but  not  on  the 
appointed  ground.” 

“  Yet  shall  that  meeting  come,”  answered  Walker. 

At  the  same  time,  all  the  Roman  Catholic  residents,  who  could 
be  discovered,  were  likewise  ordered,  without  much  anxiety  about 
their  loss  of  home,  property,  or  comforts,  to  quit  the  city.  After 
them,  of  his  own  accord,  the  Protestant  bishop  retired  to  a  coun¬ 
try-seat — one  of  the  many  respectable  individuals  of  Derry  who 
sincerely  disapproved  the  steps  taken,  and  still  cherished,  at 
heart,  an  allegiance  to  King  James. 

Some  motion  was  made  to  detain,  in  strict  custody,  the  two 
Irish  officers  who  had  been  entrapped  the  preceding  day,  osten¬ 
sibly  as  hostages  for  the  good  conduct  of  the  army  to  which  they 
belonged.  But  the  more  wary  or  timid  of  the  advisers  seemed 
against  such  a  measure  ;  and  at  the  urgent  entreaty  of  Evelyn, 
ihey  were  permitted  to  rejoin  their  friends. 

He  was,  himself,  the  bearer  of  this  intelligence  to  Edmund. 

The  former  friends  met,  with  a  warm  and  anxious  show  of 
conciliation  on  the  part  of  Evelyn,  but  a  haughty  and  repelling 
manner  on  the  part  of  M’ Donnell. 

“  Let  us  not  again  part  in  anger,  Edmund,”  said  Evelyn,  as 
he  accompanied  him  and  his  brother  officer  to  the  water-side. 
“  Hear  what  I  have  to  say,  and  you  will  at  least  give  me  your 
hand.” 

“Neither  of  us  have  time  for  private,  and  now  useless,  parley, 
sir,”  replied  M’Donnell  ;  “  every  instant  spent  from  my  post 
were  error  and  dishonor.  You,  too,  have  your  duties  to  attend 
to  in  yon  traitor  city” — his  foot  was  on  the  prow  of  the  boat — 
“but  I  refuse  not  my  hand.  Even  foes  may  at  any  time  ex¬ 
change  a  greeting — farewell  !” 

He  took  Evelyn’s  hand,  and  shook  it  strenuously.  The  boat 
put  off ;  M’Donnell  standing  up  in  it,  with  his  back  to  his  old 
friend  ;  who,  in  a  struggle  of  offended  pride  and  bitter  sorrow 
remained  gazing  after  it  till  it  had  touched  the  opposite  shore, 
and  then  mournfully  walked  baqk  to  the  city. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


205 


As  the  eve  of  the  dreaded  day  approached,  he  found  every 
one  in  increased  bustle  and  anxiety.  The  rapid  arrival  of  per¬ 
sons  of  every  rank  from  the  adjacent  country,  and  the  certain 
accounts  they  gave  of  the  general  carnage  that  was  to  take 
place,  served,  too,  to  increase  the  panic,  which,  among  the  lower 
orders  at  least,  had  already  been  sufficiently  felt.  Lord  Antrim’s 
entire  regiment  remained  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  water.  And 
though  it  was  known  that  they  had  no  guns  to  make  a  breach 
in  the  walls,  still  the  proximity  of  such  a  large  body  of  supposed 
foes  caused  great  apprehension. 

When  night  came  on,  no  one  thought  of  retiring  to  bed. 
Lights  were  placed  in  every  window  ;  a  few  guns,  the  donation 
of  the  Worshipful  London  Company,  were  badly  mounted  on 
the  walls,  and  pointed,  as  well  as  those  who  knew  nothing  of 
the  matter  could  manage  it,  towards  the  hostile  shore.  Parties 
of  the  citizen  soldiers,  headed  by  the  most  mature  of  the  appren¬ 
tices,  patrolled  the  streets,  from  gate  to  gate  ;  other  parties  held 
watch  on  the  walls.  Thither,  too,  flocked  numbers  of  the  un¬ 
armed  townspeople,  including  such  of  the  corporation  as  had 
courage  for  the  undertaking,  all  creeping  on  hands  and  knees 
along  the  terra  plane,  under  the  low  curtain  of  outside  wall,  and 
ever  and  anon  peeping  over  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  numerous 
host  of  wild  people,  who,  having  bivouacked  for  the  night,  might 
be  indistinctly  seeu  sitting  or  moving  round  their  fires,  to  a  great 
distance  by  the  bank  of  the  river. 

It  was  calculated  by  the  most  apprehensive,  that  a  first  as¬ 
sault  should  naturally  be  expected  after  the  twelfth  hour  at 
night,  in  the  very  infancy  of  the  morn  which  ushered  in  the 
bloody  day.  Mr.  Walker  and  other  clergymen  encouraging  this 
notion,  public  prayers  were  offered  up  in  the  church,  by  a  vast 
crowd,  at  about  eleven  o’clock.  Thus  prepared,  all  who  were 
not  appointed  to  guard  the  gates  and  walls,  repaired  to  their 
separate  houses,  fortified  them  as  strongly  as  they  could,  and  in 
their  most  secret  apartments  awaited  the  approach  of  midnight. 

Twelve  o’clock  struck  ;  and  not  only  in  every  house,  but 
through  the  whole  devoted  city,  death  seemed  already  to  be 
master,  so  instantaneous  and  breathless  was  the  silence.  The 
patrols  stopped,  and  stood  without  word  or  motion  on  their  way 
from  gate  to  gate,  and  in  the  full  discussion  of  the  all-engrossing 
topic.  On  the  walls,  every  eye  was  turned,  and  every  ear  di¬ 
rected  to  the  opposite  army.  But,  after  a  long  pause,  instead  of 
the  trampling  of  a  thousand  men,  and  the  rushing  of  a  host, 


206 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


naught  was  heard  abroad  save  the  tumbling  of  the  wintry  waters 
of  the  broad  river,  or  of  the  still  broader  and  more  distant 
lough,  or  the  rushing  of  the  northwest  blast  over  the  bleak  hills 
of  Inishowen. 

Thus,  in  that  strange  kind  of  disappointment  which  is  some¬ 
times  waywardly  felt  at  even  our  escape  from  an  expected  dan¬ 
ger,  the  long  December  night,  or  morning  rather,  wore  away. 
Not,  indeed,  without  sufficient  suffering  on  the  part  of  those 
whose  imaginations  made  up  for  the  absence  of  reality. 

Soon  after  daybreak,  however,  more  serious  cause  for  alarm 
seemed  to  arise.  A  great  stir  took  place  among  the  lines  of  the 
army  at  the  water-side  ;  all  got  into  order — that  is,  as  well  as  they 
knew  how  ;  and  a  terrific  yell  echoed  from  them  to  Derry. 
Again  the  guns  were  manned  and  levelled  ;  again  the  thrill  of 
terrible  expectation  ran  through  the  city  ;  when  from  the  walls, 
a  very  old  gentleman,  in  civil  attire,  was  seen  to  advance  to  the 
water’s-edge,  and  beckon  for  a  boat  to  convey  him  over.  At 
another  glance,  many  averred  that  this  was  Colonel  Philips,  of 
Newtownlimavady,  the  same  person  who  had  sent  them  word 
not  to  admit  the  redshanks  ;  and  this  circumstance  once  recol¬ 
lected,  little  opposition  was  offered  to  his  approach.  Arrived 
within  the  city,  he  informed  the  inhabitants  that  the  recent 
movement  on  the  opposite  bank  was  caused  by  the  coming 
amongst  his  regiment,  of  the  earl  of  Antrim  ;  that  he,  Colonel 
Philips,  had  been  obliged  to  accompany  the  earl  from  New¬ 
townlimavady,  as  his  envoy  to  Derry  walls  ;  and  that,  solely  in 
consequence  of  a  promise  which  he  could  not  refuse  to  give,  he 
now  demanded  entrance,  in  Lord  Antrim’s  name,  for  himself  and 
his  army.  Some  further  hints  fully  served  to  restore  to  confi 
dence  with  the  citizens  a  gentleman  in  whom,  on  account  of 
his  having  formerly  been  governor  of  their  citadel,  in  the 
time  of  Charles  the  Second  they  had  much  reliance.  He  was 
instructed  to  forbid,  by  letter,  all  admission  to  the  Irish  army  ;  he 
was  appointed,  once  more,  governor  of  the  city  he  had  called  on 
^o  surrender.  Finally,  having  imparted  some  new  and  favorable 
intelligence  from  England,  guns  were  fired  in  great  triumph  and 
ioy  upon  the  walls  ;  and  the  so  much  dreaded  army  instantly 
marched  towards  Coleraine,  without  having  committed  a  single 
act,  among  the  Protestant  people  scattered  around  them,  to 
confirm  the  former  terrible  opinion  in  which  they  had  been 
held. 

After  this  alarm,  the  dreaded  ninth  of  December,  1688,  passed 


THE  BOYNE  WATEIi. 


207 


over  quietly  in  Derry.  The  night  and  following  morning, 
too,  were  undisturbed  by  the  approach  of  any  foes  to  its  walls  ; 
and  now,  the  most  lively  general  sentiment  seemed  to  be  pity 
and  bowed  yearning  for  the  thousands  who  must  have  fallen  in 
the  open  country.  But,  strange  to  relate,  the  fully-risen  morn¬ 
ing  only  brought  to  the  gates  a  number  of  Protestauts  of  the 
county,  who,  with  eyes  and  cheeks  to  which  some  spirit  and  color 
had  just  flown  back,  informed  their  astonished  and  almost  in¬ 
credulous  brethren  of  Derry,  that,  as  far  as  they  knew,  not  a 
drop  of  Protestant  blood  had  been  shed  in  Ulster  the  preceding 
day.  Increased  intelligence  confirmed  this  statement.  So  that, 
by  the  night  of  the  11th,  the  loyal  men  of  Derry  seemed  no 
longer  warranted,  through  immediate  fear  of  their  lives,  in 
keeping  their  gates  shut  against  King  James’s  soldiers. 

Shut,  however,  the  gates  continued  to  be  ;  and  every  possible 
preparation  went  on  to  resist  the  entrance  of  a  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  garrison.  On  the  10th,  some  horse  and  foot,  part  of  the 
new  levy  of  the  Protestant  northern  association,  were  marched 
into  the  town  to  assist  the  citizens,  who  formed  themselves  into 
companies,  commanded  by  captains,  lieutenants,  and  ensigns,  of 
whom  many  were  chosen  from  among  the  apprentice  boys.  At 
the  same  time  an  agent  was  dispatched  to  the  London  Society, 
requesting  assistance,  and  also  intrusted  with  a  letter  to  the 
secretary  of  the  Prince  of  Orange. 

The  example  given  by  Derry  becoming  a  kind  of  starting  post 
for  all  the  northern  Protestant  spirit,  the  Antrim  Association, 
headed  by  Lords  Mount,  Alexander,  and  Blaney,  and  Sir  Ar¬ 
thur  Rawdon,  soon  after  published  a  politic  manifesto,  profess¬ 
ing  no  motive  but  that  of  self-preservation  against  the  numer¬ 
ous  levies  of  Roman  Catholics,  while,  in  the  same  breath,  they, 
too,  sent  a  private  address  to  William.  The  other  northern 
counties  followed  them.  Sligo,  though  not  an  Ulster  town,  also 
produced  a  union  and  an  address  ;  Enniskillen,  imitating  Derry, 
refused  admission  to  some  Roman  Catholic  soldiers  ;  Coleraine 
made  a  defence.  In  a  short  time  the  whole  of  the  north,  with 
the  exception  of  the  fort  of  Charlemont,  and  a  few  other  strong 
places,  was  in  the  hands  of  native  and  self-recruited  bodies  of 
Protestant  soldiers. 

To  go  back  a  little.  Before  affairs  had  taken  this  formidable 
appearance,  Tyrconnel  sent  the  young  and  gallant  Lord  Mount- 
joy,  with  a  considerable  force  to  reduce  Derry  to  submission. 
On  the  first  notice  of  his  approach,  the  citizens  sent  him  a  hum- 


208 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ble  and  lachrymose  letter,  praying  his  intercession,  in  their  be¬ 
half,  with  the  constituted  authorities.  On  his  appearance  before 
the  town,  a  capitulation,  after  some  seeming  demur,  was  affected  ; 
one  highly  advantageous  to  the  men  of  Derry  ;  one  that  in¬ 
creased  their  strength  with  two  companies — but  no  more — of 
Protestant  soldiers  ;  and  one,  indeed,  that  showed  little  zeal  on 
the  part  of  Lord  Mountjoy  for  the  real  service  on  which  he 
had  been  dispatched.  He  remained  in  the  city,  together  with 
his  lieutenant-colonel,  Lundy. 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  and  a  little  previous  to  the  manifesto 
of  the  Antrim  Association,  Mr.  Walker  received  a  letter,  in 
consequence  of  which  he  took  his  departure  from  Derry  towards 
his  own  residence. 

“I  am  now  called  away,”  he  said  to  Evelyn,  “by  high  ad¬ 
vice,  to  do  good  in  my  own  parish.  A  brave  body  of  men,  who 
honor  me  by  electing  me  as  their  commander,  are  ready  to  gar¬ 
rison  and  keep,  against  all  intruders,  the  strong  place  of  Dun¬ 
gannon,  a  check  upon  any  hostile  approach  northwards,  towards 
this  good  city  of  Derry.  God  willing,  I  shall  do  my  best  to 
honor  the  confidence  of  my  friends,  and  discharge  the  duty  to 
which  I  am  appointed.  Farewell,  my  young  brother.  Have 
you  thoughts  when  you,  too,  shall  move  towards  the  honorable 
post  of  duty  and  danger  ?” 

“  Before  I  can  adopt  any  such  course,  Mr.  Walker,  I  am  first 
bound  to  visit  my  paternal  estate  and  mansion,  now  requiring  a 
master’s  eye,  in  such  agitated  times,  and  after  so  long  an  absence.” 

“  It  is  well,”  resumed  Walker  ;  “and  by  the  time  you  shall 
have  wound  up  your  affairs,  the  valiant  soldiers  whom  you  are 
appointed  to  command  will  be,  perhaps,  near  you,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Lisburn  or  Hillsborough,  where  you  can  join 
them.  There  is  but  one  caution  I  would  offer  you.  Go  not 
alone  to  your  father’s  house.  The  scum  and  outcasts  of  the 
Papist  enemy,  under  the  name  of  Rapparees  or  Tories,  are  un¬ 
loosed  over  the  face  of  the  country,  without  hindrance  from  the 
more  regular  Papist  army — with  whom,  indeed,  their  spirit  of 
hatred  towards  us  is  identified — and,  as  yet,  unchecked  by  hon- 
ester  men.  So  strong  are  they  in  numbers,  and  so  audacious  in 
enterprise,  that  they  have  already  seized  the  castle  of  Monaghan 
and  other  strong  places,  together  with  many  seats  of  private 
gentlemen.  Therefore,  expose  not  your  life  to  their  cruelty  I 
say  ;  ride  not  home  unaccompanied.  And  so,  Providence  be 
your  shield  on  the  road,  and  farewell.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


209 


Evelyn,  resolving  to  follow  this  advice,  did  not,  however,  leave 
Derry,  on  his  intended  journey,  till  some  time  after  Mr.  Walker’s 
departure  ;  the  delicate  and  uncertain  state  of  his  sister’s 
health  not  allowing  him  immediately  to  lose  sight  of  her.  In 
the  interim  he  watched  the  thickening  of  important  events 
around  the  walls  of  Derry.  After  the  promulgation  of  the 
Antrim  address,  Tyrconnel  could  not  avoid  becoming  seriously 
alarmed  at  the  growing  appearance  of  affairs  in  the  north  ;  nor 
did  he  find  much  cause  to  continue  his  confidence  in  the  new  and 
noble  governor  of  Derry,  who,  fully  sharing  the  views  of  the 
citizen  soldiers,  not  only  allowed  them  to  increase  the  strength 
of  their  position,  but  zealously  superintended  or  ordered  many 
new  arrangements  for  future  defence  and  resistance.  At  his  in¬ 
stance,  a  number  of  useless  arms,  found  in  the  stores,  were 
repaired  ;  dismounted  guns  supplied  with  carriages  ;  a  com¬ 
mittee  appointed  to  raise  funds  ;  some  ammunition  landed 
from  Scotland  ;  and  some  more  destined  for  Lord  Antrim,  and 
lying  wind-bound  on  the  coast,  seized  and  deposited  in  the  maga¬ 
zine. 

The  always  rash  and  violent  lord-lieutenant,  seeing  the  error 
he  had  committed,  by  sending  such  a  man  to  such  a  place,  now 
recalled  him.  Lord  Mountjoy  was  advised  by  many  friends  not 
to  obey  the  summons.  Fearing  the  consequences  of  Tyrconnel’s 
vengeance,  he  went,  however,  leaving  behind  him,  as  governor, 
and  in  lieu  of  Colonel  Philips,  his  lieutenant-colonel,  Lundy,  a 
man,  by  the  way,  in  whom  the  citizens  had  less  confidence. 
Arrived  in  Dublin,  Lord  Mountjoy  was  sent  to  France,  on  an 
errand  to  James  ;  accounts  add,  that  the  moment  he  arrived  in 
Paris,  he  was  shut  up  in  the  Bastile,  and,  however  unauthentic 
this  story  may  be,  it  served,  when  known  or  reported  in  Derry, 
to  confirm  in  the  breasts  of  the  sturdy  citizens,  an  indignant 
determination  of  resistance. 

At  this  juncture,  Evelyn,  attended  by  two  well-armed  men, 
set  out,  in  a  southern  direction,  through  the  province  of  Ulster, 
to  visit  his  house  on  the  banks  of  Lough  Neagh.  He  had  not 
been  uninterested  by  the  progress  of  events  around  him.  Nor 
could  we  refuse  to  allow,  even  in  a  work  like  this,  more  histor¬ 
ical  correctness  of  detail  than  they  have  yet  found,  to  the  affairs 
of  a  place,  which,  however  inconsiderable  it  may  be,  or  however 
unimportant  or  ridiculous  might  have  seemed  the  beginning  of 
ita  resistance,  carried  on  a  struggle,  that  first  helped  to  insure 
to  an  adventurous  prince  the  crown  of  three  kingdoms. 


210 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Evelyn  had  left  TJncle  Jeremiah  and  Oliver  Whittle  particu 
larly  in  charge  of  his  house.  A  good  number  of  servants  re¬ 
mained  in  it ;  but  Oliver,  as  steward,  major-domo,  and  facto¬ 
tum,  commanded  them  all  ;  while  Jerry  still  overtopped  him,  aa 
representative  of  the  proprietor. 

It  was  early  in  March  that  Evelyn  bent  his  way  homeward. 
March  had,  this  year,  “  come  in  like  a  lamb,”  so  that  the 
weather  proved  very  agreeable  for,  at  least,  the  rapid  and  blood¬ 
stirring  kind  of  travel  he  adopted.  The  evening  of  the  second 
day  brought  him  in  sight  of  his  house.  At  a  pretty  hamlet, 
about  three  miles  distant  from  it,  just  as  a  young  moon  rose  to 
assert  her  empire  over  the  twilight,  Evelyn,  so  far  unmolested  on 
the  road,  dismissed  his  armed  attendants,  and  fearing  little  through 
a  neighborhood  where  he  was  so  well  known,  and  where  friends 
abounded,  pushed  on  alone  towards  his  country  mansion. 

The  road,  within  half  a  mile,  commanded  a  view  of  it.  Eve¬ 
lyn  paused  a  moment  to  contemplate,  after  so  long  an  absence, 
the  roof  that  protected  his  childhood,  and  the  scenery  that  was 
so  familiar  to  his  eye.  Although  day  had  entirely  sunk,  the 
clear  light  of  the  moon,  shining  full  upon  every  feature,  allowed 
him  sufficient  opportunity  for  his  survey.  It  was  a  house,  built, 
we  may  almost  say,  in  England,  like  many  northern  Irish  houses 
of  that  period — that  is,  its  wooden  frame,  its  interior  divisions, 
its  flooring,  wainscoting,  door,  and  windows,  etc.,  had  been  con¬ 
structed  and  adapted  to  each  other  in  England.  So  that,  when 
afterwards  conveyed  by  the  English  colonist  to  Ireland,  he  had 
but  to  choose  a  favorable  spot  of  ground,  to  put  together  his 
skeleton  house  upon  it,  to  build  between  the  wooden  compart¬ 
ments  of  the  outside  frame,  with  brick  and  mortar  ;  to  plaster 
over  what  he  had  built,  leaving  the  wooden  divisions  still  dis¬ 
tinctly  visible  ;  and  the  result  was  an  ordinary  country  mansion 
of  that  day,  not  unaptly  styled  calimanco  work,  such  as  he  had 
been  used  to,  for  half  a  century,  in  the  sister  country. 

At  a  house  of  this  kind,  then,  Evelyn  was  looking.  He  could 
recoguize  the  woodbine-covered  window,  in  the  second  story, 
which  lighted  his  old  sleeping-chamber  ;  the  large  bow  windows 
of  ths  drawing-room,  and  of  his  father’s  study  ;  the  porched 
door  ander  the  middle  one,  with  seats  in  the  porch  j  at  the  gate 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


211 


nearest  the  house,  the  horseblock,  by  means  of  which  his  father, 
in  his  old  age,  and  himself,  in  his  childhood,  had  gained  their 
saddles  ;  the  court,  planted  round  with  evergreens  ;  the  park, 
extending  at  each  side  of  the  building,  once  well  stocked,  as 
Evelyn  recollected,  with  hares  and  rabbits,  and  a  few  deer,  in¬ 
closing  two  fish-ponds,  and  running  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
against  a  gentle  acclivity,  thickly  and  tastily  planted,  which 
gave  shelter  from  the  rude  blasts  that  occasionally  swept  the 
bosom  of  the  adjacent  Lough  Neagh.  While,  to  complete  the 
picture,  that  vast  sheet  of  water  could  be  seen,  over  house,  ac¬ 
clivity,  trees,  and  all,  spreading  to  a  great  distance  in  the  moon¬ 
light,  but  now  only  dimpling  and  trembling  under  its  ray,  as  an 
-evening  breeze  fluttered  across  its  surface. 

As  Evelyn  continued  to  regard  this  scene,  he  was  struck  with 
an  unusual  blaze  of  light  in  the  lower  windows  of  the  house, 
which  belonged  to  the  hall  and  parlor.  It  seemed  as  if  a  great 
entertainment  was  going  on  ;  for,  as  the  servants  had  their  own 
hall,  that  in  question  was  never  so  gayly  lit  up,  except  .when  pe¬ 
riodical  feastings  were  given  to  the  surrounding  tenantry.  This 
was  bad  housekeeping,  he  thought,  on  the  part  of  Uncle  Jerry, 
or  of  Oliver,  or  of  both,  in  his  absence  ;  and,  feeling  some  little 
anger  and  impatience,  he  gave  spurs  to  his  horse,  anxious  to  view 
and  reprehend  such  unthrifty,  and,  indeed,  unwarrantable  stew¬ 
ardship. 

Arrived  at  the  gate  which  led  into  the  straight  approach  to 
the  house,  he  found  it  flung  wide  open.  Here  was  very  culpable 
negligence,  too,  in  such  unsettled  times.  But  as  he  looked  up 
the  little  avenue,  getting  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  house  itself, 
his  wonder  increased  to  observe  the  hall-door  open  also,  while 
through  it,  as  well  as  through  the  windows  of  the  hall,  he  now 
caught  the  faces  and  figures  of  a  number  of  men,  seemingly 
making  very  merry  at  his  expense,  and  without  his  invitation. 
Continuing  to  look  on  in  surprise  and  wrath,  a  new  incident 
changed  his  sensations  by  startling  him.  All  along  the  avenue 
the  moon’s  rays  were  interrupted  by  the  arching  sycamores  over¬ 
head.  Half-way  on,  however,  owing  to  a  deficiency  in  the  line 
of  trees,  a  pure  stream  of  moonlight  swept  across,  showing  silver 
white  in  contrast  with  the  red  glare  from  the  house  ;  and  Eve¬ 
lyn’s  eye  was  struck  with  the  figure  of  a  man,  who,  starting  into 
this  vivid  light,  looked  sharply  around  him,  and  then  his  steel 
cap  glimmering  as  he  moved,  crossed  and  disappeared  among  the 
stems,  where  the  shadow  was  impenetrable. 


212 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Hastily  taking  a  pistol  from  his  holster,  Evelyn  dashed  for 
ward.  At  the  first  plunge  he  came  violently  in  contact  with 
some  heavy  obstacle  in  mid  air,  which,  striking  against  his 
breast  and  face,  sent  steed  and  rider  a  step  backward.  He  re¬ 
advanced  more  cautiously,  and  looked  close,  to  discover  what 
had  thus  interrupted  his  career.  A  moment’s  inspection  showed 
him  the  legs  of  a  man,  covered  with  prodigious  jack-boots.  They 
swung  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  consequence  of  their  late  contact  with 
his  person  ;  and  Evelyn,  looking  up,  became  aware  that  they 
belonged  to  a  dead  body,  which  hung  by  the  neck  from  the  arm 
of  a  sycamore.  He  strove  to  recognize  the  face  ;  and  the  moon, 
darting  through  a  favorable  aperture  between  the  arching 
boughs,  shone  full  on  the  convulsed  and  disfigured  features  of 
poor  Oliver  Whittle. 

This  spectacle  changed  Evelyn’s  ardor  ;  bringing  a  suspicion, 
too,  that  the  guests  in  this  hall  had  come  without  invitation  from 
his  hitherto  faithful  steward.  Even  Uncle  Jerry  began  to  find  an 
apology  in  his  nephew’s  thoughts,  who  nowj  indeed,  could  not 
help  surveying  the  other  trees  around  him,  in  a  misgiving  that  from 
one  of  them  might  append  the  goodly  bulk  of  his  affectionate, 
and,  with  many  faults,  beloved  relative.  As  he  and  his  horse 
stood  stock-still,  the  propriety  of  making  the  best  of  his  way 
back  to  the  village  occurred  to  Evelyn  ;  and  he  cautiously 
turned  the  animal’s  head  to  the  avenue  gate,  and  walked  him 
softly  a  few  steps  upon  the  velvet  sward,  near  the  trees,  in  order 
to  avoid  the  sounding  of  his  hoofs  on  the  middle  of  the  way. 
But  the  avenue  gate  appeared  occupied  by  six  or  seven  men, 
standing,  indeed,  quietly,  and  with  their  backs  turned  to  him, 
but  by  no  means  inviting  approach,  under  all  the  circumstances. 
Evelyn  stopped,  therefore,  a  second  time,  and  hoping  he  had  not 
been  perceived,  quietly  dismounted  ;  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and 
stealing,  in  the  deep  shadow,  by  the  wall,  that  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  trees  bounded  the  avenue,  made  way  to  au  opening  in 
it,  with  which  he  was  well  acquainted,  resolving  to  escape  there¬ 
by  into  the  park,  and  so,  if  possible,  into  the  country.  He 
gained  the  opening,  got  a  view  of  the  faintly-marked  path,  that 
amid  groups  of  light  trees  and  tufts  of  bushes,  wandered  over 
the  park,  and  was  just  about  to  enter,  when,  within  the  grounds 
there  appeared  another  man,  slowly  walking  onward,  his  back 
turned,  and  a  carbine  resting  on  his  arm.  Once  more  Evelyn 
gave  up  his  plan  ;  but  darting  across  the  avenue  ran  to  a  second 
opening,  in  the  opposite  wall,  which  served  as  a  short  way  to  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


213 


kennels,  dovecotes,  and  other  petty  out-offices.  Exactly  at  the 
far  side  of  this  gap  stood  another  stranger,  his  regards  seemingly 
fixed  on  the  starry  heavens,  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  a  half-pike  in 
his  hand  ;  while  further  on,  a  new  group  of  persons  conversed 
in  whispers,  in  the  moonlight.  Really  alarmed,  Evelyn  stepped 
back,  and  threw  a  hasty  glance  up  and  down  the  avenue.  Now 
his  eye  caught,  or  he  thought  it  did,  more  and  more  forms  of 
men  gliding  in  the  shadow  among  the  stems  of  the  trees,  or 
standing  stationary  between  them.  Confused,  if  not  terror- 
stricken,  he  became  embarrassed  for  an  instant  ;  and  this  grad¬ 
ual  closing  in  upon  him  of  so  many  mysterious  individuals,  gave 
something  of  the  sensation  of  a  wild  and  shadowy  dream. 

As  he  stood  leaning  against  a  tree — 

“  Go  on,”  said  a  deep  voice,  very  near  him. 

He  started,  but  remained  where  he  was,  suspecting  that  his 
overwrought  feelings  had  deceived  his  ear. 

“  Go  on  as  you’re  bid,”  repeated  another  voice,  over  his  head. 

11  Whither  ?”  he  asked,  now  certain  of  the  reality  of  the  words. 

“  To  the  house,  to  be  sure,”  he  was  answered,  “  where  you’ll 
get  a  welcome,  an’  cead  mille  phalteagh” 

Still  he  hesitated,  naturally  enough. 

“  Dhai'-a-Ohreesth  !  why  don’t  you  go  on?”  cried  another 
invisible  neighbor,  angrily.  And  “  go  on  1”  was  repeated  by 
many  voices,  at  different  distances.  “  You’re  expected,”  they 
added. 

Evelyn  at  last  moved  towards  the  house,  not  very  certain  of 
the  welcome  he  was  promised  ;  nor,  indeed,  of  his  way  thither. 
In  perfect  safety  he  entered,  however,  the  gate  that  terminated 
the  avenue  before  the  house,  and  stood  to  observe  more  closely 
the  people  in  the  hall.  They  drank,  or  spoke,  or  laughed  unin¬ 
terruptedly.  Among  the  voices  he  caught  some  female  tones, 
loud  in  hilarity,  although  he  could  not  see  the  speakers.  In  the 
doorway,  and  in  each  side  of  the  porch,  appeared  a  crowd  of 
persons,  drinking  and  conversing  too,  who  either  did  not  or 
would  not  notice  his  coming  :  but  as  he  stood  in  the  deep  shade 
of  the  evergreens  that  ran  all  around  him,  perhaps  they  really 
did  not  perceive  him. 

A  last  thought  of  escape  occurred  to  Evelyn.  Near  at  hand, 
the  thick  rows  of  bushes  divided,  and  allowed  a  passage  behind 
them,  which,  sweeping  by  the  sides  of  the  mansion,  communi¬ 
cated  with  the  grove  on  the  hill  at  its  back.  In  a  moment  he 
had  cautiously  entered  this  brake,  and  in  another  had  gained  the 


214 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


rear  of  the  house,  where  no  ray  of  moonlight  disturbed  the  pro¬ 
found  darkness.  With  a  beating  heart  he  stepped  lightly  along 
the  narrow  path,  scarce  finding,  among  a  double  row  of  ever¬ 
greens,  room  to  make  wTay,  when  a  strong  hand  grasped  his 
collar,  and  a  rude  voice  said,  though  not  threateningly — 

“  Stop  man  ;  where  ’ud  you  be  going  ?” 

11  Unhand  me,  fellow  ?”  cried  Evelyn  ;  “  I  wished  to  enter  my 
house.” 

“  Only  you  missed  the  way,”  resumed  the  man,  relaxing, 
though  not  relinquishing  his  hold,  “  an’  more  shame  for  you, 
that  ought  to  know  it  betther.  But  I’ll  find  it  out  to  oblige 
you,  anyhow  ;  an’  you’d  betther  be  said  and  led  by  a  friend,  nor 
vex  them  that  has  you  well  watched,  whichever  way  you  turn.” 

Evelyn  accordingly  retraced  his  steps  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  finally  entered.  As  he  passed  the  porch,  the  men 
who  occupied  it,  and  whom  he  could  now  perceive  were,  in 
various  ways,  rudely  armed,  rose  up,  to  his  great  surprise,  doffed 
their  steel  caps  or  penthouse  hats,  and  inclining  their  wild  shock- 
heads,  bid  him  welcome  in  a  southern  brogue.  Whether  they 
jested  or  no,  Evelyn’s  confusion  did  not  allow  him  to  determine. 
The  hall  was  full  of  strange  people,  of  the  same  appearance, 
some  seated  round  the  large  oak  table,  some  grouped  in  corners, 
and  some  stretched  out  upon  the  ample  brick  hearth,  basking  in 
the  light  of  a  mighty  fire,  made  of  the  roots  of  trees  and  logs, 
or  engaged  in  caressing  or  playing  with  the  hounds,  mastiffs,  and 
terriers  which  Evelyn  had  left  behind,  all  then  faithful  to  him, 
but  which  now  seemed  so  much  fascinated  with  the  new  comers, 
as  not  to  have  time  to  notice  his  entrance,  or  else  to  notice  it  bv 
snarling,  barking,  or  baying  only.  Other  followers,  too,  did  not 
seem  a  whit  more  faithful.  Mixed  with  the  men,  in  remote 
parts  of  the  hall,  he  observed  a  number  of  athletic,  broad- 
shouldered,  sunburnt,  and  wildly-habited  women,  evidently  their 
associates  ;  and  here  and  there,  the  maidens  and  matrons 
of  his  own  establishment,  laughing  and  giggling,  and  as  happy 
as  happy  could  be. 

His  conductor  having  stopped  in  the  hall  to  communicate 
with  the  few  who  seemed  interested  about  his  entrance,  Evelyn 
was  afforded  time  to  make  and  continue  his  observations.  As 
he  took  care  to  keep  himself  enveloped  in  his  large  riding-cloak, 
he  was  also  enabled  to  look  about  him  without  fear  of  recog¬ 
nition  from  his  own  former  servants.  Sad  havoc  seemed  to  have 
taken  place  on  every  side.  The  old  broadswords,  partisans,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


215 


the 

the 

the 

un 


daggers,  the  fishing-rods  and  spears,  and,  above  all,  the  flitches 
of  bacon,  had  disappeared  from  over  the  huge  mantelpiece  ;  the 
hawks  from  their  perches,  at  one  end  of  the  extensive  apart¬ 
ment  ;  the  hawking  and  hunting  poles  from  their  rests  ;  the 
portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth  had  vanished  from  its  recess 
Book  of  Martyrs  lay,  half  burnt,  at  the  back  of  the  fire 
fox  and  otter-skins  had  descended  from  the  walls  to  grace 
heads,  after  having  been  fashioned  into  rude  caps,  of  the 
welcomed  guests  around  ;  King  Charles’s  Golden  Rules,  and  a 
few  antlers,  were  the  only  ornaments  that  remained.  The 
flagged  floor  was  strewn  with  half-picked  bones  and  with  wine- 
cups  ;  and  along  the  walls  had  been  ranged,  to  save  trouble  to 
the  butler,  casks  of  good  wine  and  ale,  and  kegs  of  brandy,  to 
which  man  and  woman  recurred  at  pleasure. 

The  dogs,  of  different  degrees,  now  beginning  to  recognize 
their  old  master,  Evelyn  was  glad  when  his  conductor  at  last 
ended  his  conference  with  his  friends,  and  advanced,  by  his  side, 
towards  the  parlor,  into  which  a  door  opened  from  one  end  of 
the  hall.  Notwithstanding  fears  for  his  own  personal  safety, 
Evelyn’s  saddest  reflection,  up  to  this  moment,  had  been  caused 
by  uncertainty  as  to  the  fate  of  his  Uncle  Jeremiah.  Arrived 
within  a  step  of  the  half-open  door,  however,  and  able  to  see 
into  the  parlor,  apprehensions  for  his  life  yielded  to  the  wildest 
wonder  to  see  him  living,  situated  and  engaged  as  Jerry  now 
presented  himself.  But  before  we  come  to  him,  it  is  convenient 
to  notice  the  whole  company  of  the  room,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
its  own  present  appearance. 

A  Turk-wrought  chain,  which  had  adorned  the  parlor,  was 
wantonly  destroyed  ;  and  with  a  swelling  and  indignant  heart, 
Evelyn  beheld,  reduced  to  fragments,  the  numerous  portraits  of 
his  ancestors,  strewn  upon  the  oaken  floor,  or  flung  into  the 
corners — though  if  true  taste  for  the  arts  had  alone  influenced 


his  feelings,  the  destruction  of  such  an  everlasting  corps  of  shep¬ 
herds  and  shepherdesses,  wearing  full-bottomed  perukes,  and 
court  suits,  while  they  performed  sentiment  with  crooks  in  their 
hands,  could  not  have  caused  him  much  regret.  At  different 
tables  sat  about  ten  men,  more  regularly  habited  than  those  in 
the  hall,  and  with  an  air  that  approached  near  to  respectability 
— particularly  one  short,  slight,  well-made  youth,  with  a  hand¬ 
some,  high-colored  face,  well-marked  nose  and  mouth,  and  a 
keen,  glancing  blue  eye,  who  seemed  to  command  the  groups 
around  him.  But  like  the  meanest  of  their  companions,  all  in 


216 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  parlor  indulged  freely  in  libations  ;  their  wineeups  and 
liquor  glasses  mixed  up  on  the  tables  with  hawks’  hoods  and 
bells — some  of  the  articles  they  had  found  in  the  house — and 
with  dice  and  cards,  pipes  and  skeins — some  that  they  had 
brought  into  it. 

Stretched  out  at  full  length  on  the  hearth,  that  here,  also, 
was  very  ample,  and  paved  with  brick,  lay  a  man  of  unusual,  in 
deed  almost  gigantic,  proportions,  his  vast  chest  and  shoulder 
corresponding  to  an  extent  of  figure  that  could  not  be  less  than 
six  feet  and  a  half,  his  arms  and  lower  limbs  perhaps  too  bulky 
and  fleshy.  His  dress  was  superior  to  that  of  any  around  him  ; 
being  formed  of  a  complete  breast  and  back  piece,  brightly  bur¬ 
nished  ;  a  buff  coat,  curiously  wrought  about  the  sleeves  and 
skirts ;  horseman’s  boots,  well  spurred  ;  a  sash ;  with,  now 
lying  by  his  side,  a  fashionable  cocked  and  flapped  military  hat, 
gallantly  plumed.  Altogether  he  bore  the  appearance  of  a  mili¬ 
tary  officer  of  rank  ;  and,  as  Evelyn  perceived,  slept  profoundly. 

Of  the  other  ten  or  dozen  men  in  the  room,  half  were  sitting 
at  the  walls,  paying  gallant  attention  to  some  fresh-faced  and 
comely  young  lasses,  who  had  joined  them  from  the  neighbor¬ 
hood,  or  who  belonged  to  their  own  community.  While  all 
talked  or  laughed  loudly,  two  or  three,  male  and  female,  sang 
out  together.  And  now,  and  at  length,  we  come  to  the  first 
group  that  struck  Evelyn’s  eye — namely,  his  Uncle  Jerry,  sit¬ 
ting  between  the  plump  housekeeper  and  our  former  acquaint¬ 
ance,  Rory-na-chopple,  or  the  Whisperer,  one  hand  round  the 
matron,  and  the  other  hand  affectionately  clasping  that  of  the 
Rapparee,  as,  over  and  over,  Jerry  praised  a  song  he  had  lately 
performed,  and  gently  urged  him  to  repeat  it. 

“Songs  I  have  heard,”  he  said,  “by  sea  and  land,  from  Turk, 
Jew,  and  Christian,  of  every  sect  and  country,  but  that  song, 
excellent  Rory,  sorpasseth  them  all.” 

As  Evelyn  entered,  his  conductor  announced  him,  in  a  few 
words  of  Irish.  The  first  person  who  took  notice  of  his  pres¬ 
ence  was  the  quick-eyed  young  man  already  spoken  of,  who, 
starting  from  his  seat,  advanced,  in  a  French  style  of  courtesy, 
and  with  many  welcomes  offered  his  hand.  Evelyn,  his  spirit 
and  indignation  at  last  overmastering  his  personal  apprehensions, 
haughtily  stepped  back.  At  which  the  young  man  drew  up, 
even  more  proudly  frowned,  let  fly  a  dangerous  glance  at  his 
visitor,  and  quickly  resumed  his  seat. 

“Musha,  welcome,  an’  a  thousand  welcomes,”  cried  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


217 


Whisperer,  nearly  at  the  same  moment ;  “  sure  it's  joy  is  in  our 
hearts  to  see  you  here  agin,  when  we  thought  you  left  home,  for 
good-an’-all.” 

“  Hollo — a  1”  piped  Jerry,  staggering  a  little  (as  he  relin¬ 
quished  the  housekeeper’s  waist),  and,  by  such  an  usual  symp¬ 
tom,  giving  omen  of  how  vast  and  deep  had  been  his  libations, 
“  Nephew  of  my  heart,  welcome  amongst  us.” 

As,  with  some  tacking,  he  steered  forward,  Evelyn  lost  all 
self-command. 

“  Wretched  man  !”  he  cried,  “  where  and  with  whom  do  I 
find  you?” 

“  Where  !”  repeated  Jerry — “  where  but  in  the  old  ship  still, 
sticking  to  her  through  all  weathers.  And  with  whom  ?  with 
honest  fellows,  trust  me.” 

“  What,  sir  !  is  this  your  natural  feeling — not  to  say  duty 
—in  your  brother’s  house — carousing  and  clasping  hands  with 
its  plunderers  ?” 

“  Have  a  care,  young  gentleman,”  cried  the  person  Evelyn 
had  just  offended,  starting  in  his  seat,  and  grasping  a  pistol  that 
was  in  his  belt. 

“  Asy,  avich,  asv,”  said  the  Whisperer  ;  “say  as  little  as  you 
can  of  your  own  friends.” 

“  What  could  I  do  ?”  asked  Jerry.  “  What  would  you  have 
me  do  ?  I  fought  them  fairly  while  we  could  give  a  broadside. 
I  met  them  foot  to  foot  as  they  boarded  us  ;  and  two  of  ’em 
could  tell  you  as  much,  only  they  can’t  speak,  for  the  life  of 
’em,  at  present.  And  so  could  Magog  himself  there,  if  he  was 
awake,  seeing  he  still  bears  a  compliment  from  my  hanger.” 

“  It’s  God’s  thruth,  every  word,”  interrupted  the  Whisperer. 
“  A  betther  man,  for  the  little  of  him  that’s  in  it,  never  broke 
bread,  or  throd  in  shoe-leather.” 

“And,”  continued  Jerry,  “when  the  devil  himself,  had  he 
been  captain,  could  have  worked  ship  no  longer — when  there 
wasn’t  a  cartridge  left  in  the  powder-room,  nor  a  hand  left  on 
deck  but  Noll  and  myself — what  could  brave  men  do  but  strike  ? 
And  there  again,  when  they  boarded  us,  like  gentlemen,  and 
were  for  remembering  our  good  services,  and  treating  us  kindly 
— brave  foes,  brave  friends,  you  know,  the  wide  seas  over — and 
— a  word  in  your  ear — when  I  saw  Noll  dangling  from  the  yard¬ 
arm,  because  after  striking  he  was  too  serious,  and  thought  to 
break  treaty — and  especially  when  they  were  all  hearty  lads, 
hand  and  palm,  and  cup  to  cup  with  me — what  was  to  be  done, 

10 


218 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


I  say  ?  Would  you  have  me  follow  Noll  by  the  cathead  ?  Or, 
worse,  would  you  have  me  be  the  only  sad  heart  amongst  merry 
men  and  honest  fellows,  nephew  ?  You  know  I  never  liked 
that.” 

“Honest!”  resumed  Evelyn.  “Tell  me,  Uncle  Jeremiah, 
how  long  has  this  happened  ?  How  long  has  my  father’s  house 
been  a  thieves’  barrack  ?  How  long  have  I  been  a  ruined  man  ?” 

“  Speak  lower  still,  nephew,  and  I  will  try  to  tell  you.  Let 
me  see.  The  first  night  we  got  through  the  cask  of  Burgundy 
— that  was  of  a  Wednesday,  I  think  ;  the  next  night  the  Geneva 
was  out — I  believe  the  next,  but  I  don’t  pretend  to  be  sure ;  the 
night  after  the  Canary  ran  dry — I  thought  there  had  been  more 
of  it ;  that  must  have  been  on  the  Saturday.  And  stay,  what 
day  is  this  ?  Monday,  I  opine.  But,  in  fact,  nephew,  there 
has  been  such  a  running  of  day  into  night,  and  thereby  of  one 
day  into  another,  with,  as  you  see,  some  running  from  the  wine- 
casks,  that  you  will  excuse  me  in  the  matter  of  extreme  particu¬ 
larity.” 

“  Pray,  inform  me,  Mr.  Rory-na  chopple,”  continued  Evelyn, 
turning  away  in  disgust  from  his  uncle,  “on  what  day  was  I  first 
honored  with  this  visit  ?  You,  I  presume,  are  master  here,”  he 
added,  recollecting  the  transcendant  fame  of  Rory. 

“No,  then,  I  am  not  ;  an’  for  why  or  for  what  should  I?” 
answered  the  Whisperer,  meekly.  “  Sure  I’m  no  more  nor  fit 
to  help  my  betthers,  now  an’  then,  wid  the  little  janious  that 
God  ga’  me  ;  an’  ouly  for  it  mightn’t  I  die,  like  an  ould  horse, 
in  the  ditch  ?  Poor  Rory  is  only  the  dochthoor-na-cliopple * 
you  see,  wid  a  little  to  do  in  the  way  of  providin’  bastes,  an’  a 
thing  of  the  kind,  for  the  army.  Bud  the  genteel  that  spoke 
you  so  fair  a-comiu’  in — an’  a  genteel  he  is,  sure,  if  his  own  sef 
tells  the  story” — winking  shrewdly — “  he’s  the  captain.  A 
good  mother’s  son  ;  butther  wouldn’t  melt  in  his  mouth,  he’s  so 
quiet  when  you  don’t  put  the  anger  on  him  ;  but  you’d  rather 
net  staud  in  his  way  if  he  war  angry.  An’,  then,  the  gineral, 
entirely,  is  that  weeny  goryoon  lyin’  asleep  forninst  the  fire.  No 
great  things  at  the  tongue,  an’  as  soft  as  a  child  at  the  breast  ; 
a  great  big  slob,  you’d  think.  Only  he’d  walk  by  a  stone  wall 
the  day  long,  an’  never  take  a  bite  out  of  it,  if  he  war  ever  so 
hungry,  I’m  thinkin’.” 

“  I  have  asked  you,”  said  Evelyn,  assuming  indifference, 


*  Horse-doctor. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


219 


though  he  really  was  not  indifferent  to  Rory’s  indication,  in  his 
own  way,  of  the  characters  of  those  with  whom  he  found  himself 
called  to  deal — “  I  have  asked  you  to  inform  me  how  long  it  is 
since  your  party  has  visited  my  house  ?” 

“  Five  days  exactly,”  answered  the  captain,  who  had  over¬ 
heard  the  question. 

“  And  how  long  am  I  to  be  indulged  with  your  company, 
gentlemen?”  he  continued. 

“  That  will  depend  on  the  state  of  things  abroad,  and  on  the 
will  of  our  general,”  answered  the  same  person. 

“  I  am  anxious — naturally,  you  will  say — to  get  a  little  more 
information,  sir.  I  am  anxious  to  know  to  what  extent  my  prop¬ 
erty  has  been  of  use  to  you  ;  and  how  far,  after  your  depart¬ 
ure,  at  your  own  good  leisure,  my  private  coffers  may  still  ad¬ 
minister  to  my  wants.” 

“  Private  convenience,”  replied  the  captain,  “  must,  on  all 
occasions  of  public  need,  be  little  considered.  The  ready  cash 
you  speak  of  has,  of  course,  been  appropriated  to  the  carrying 
on  of  a  war  against  the  traitors  and  enemies  of  King  James’s 
crown  and  person.” 

“  And  I  am  left  a  beggar  ?”  said  Evelyn. 

“  I  regret  it,  sir  ;  but  you  should  have  remained  at  home  to 
protect  your  property  by  your  presence.  When  you  fled  to  the 
rebel  city,  your  whole  possessions  became  forfeited,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  new  and  wholesome  law,  recently  promulgated  in 
the  name  of  our  zealous  lord-lieutenant,  which  dooms  to  con¬ 
fiscation  the  house  and  estates  of  all  fugitives.” 

“  Giving  you,  and  such  as  you,  the  right  to  execute  the  con¬ 
fiscation  ?” 

“  Me !  and  such  as  I  1  What  mean  you,  Master  Evelyn,  by 
that  particularity  ?” 

“  1  believe  you  hold  no  command  or  commission  from  King 
James,  or  his  lieutenant,”  answered  Evelyn,  his  ruined  prospects 
making  him  rash  and  desperate,  “  to  authorize  you  in  carrying 
into  effect  the  edicts  of  either.  And  I  know  that  the  justice  of 
your  country  is,  even  now,  preparing  to  hunt  you  down  for  such 
interference  with  its  mandates.  Deceive  me  not — I  am  aware 
of  your  character.” 

“Not  so,  by  Heaven,  when  you  dare  rouse  it  by  speech  like 
this?”  cried  the  captain,  jumping  up,  drawing  his  sword,  and 
cutting  at  Evelyn.  But  Evelyn,  snatching  another  sword  from 
the  table,  was  on  his  guard,  so  that  nothing  resulted  from  the 


220 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


young  man’s  attack  but  a  loud  clash  of  their  weapons.  At  the 
same  moment,  there  was  another  jingle  of  arms. 

“  What’s  this  ?”  cried  the  hitherto  sleeping  giant  at  the 
hearth,  gathering  up  his  unwieldy  length  of  limbs,  and  striding 
forward — “  Pace  !  pace  !  pace  is  best  1  Pace,  little  Captaiu 
Willy” — twirling  him  by  the  neck  to  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

“Bravo,  bully  Magog  !”  cried  Jerry;  “bravo,  noble  G-oli* 
ath  1  And  now,  welcome  my  nephew  home,  and  tell  him 
whether  or  no  the  old  ship  struck  at  your  first  summons.” 

“  Hah — eh — ay — who  is  the  newcomer  ?”  asked  the  person 
addressed,  staring  stupidly  at  Evelyn,  and  now  and  then  rubbing 
his  eyes  and  yawning.  “Your  nephew,  truly,  little  admiral  ? 
Welcome  he  is,  then,  and  welcome  let  him  be — welcome  as  the 
flowers  o’  May  l1’  And  the  Rapparee  general  seized  Evelyn’s 
hand  in  his,  with  a  grasp  that  almost  crushed  it. 

“You  know  me,  don’t  you?”  he  continued,  observing  Evelyn’s 
cool  and  offended  manner. 

“  I  have  not  that  honor,”  he  was  answered. 

“Heard  you  ever,  then,  of  a  man  of  some  size,  called  Gallop¬ 
ing  Hogan,  youngster  ?” 

Evelyn  readily  assented  ;  as,  indeed,  he  had,  from  many 
sources,  become  acquainted  with  the  prowess  of  that  king  of 
southern  Rapparees. 

“  He  stands  before  you,  and  offers  you  his  hand,”  continued 
this  dangerous  person  ;  “  do  you  refuse  it  ?”  Evelyn  thought 
proper  to  allow  his  words  and  actions  to  answer  in  the  negative. 

“  Galloping  Hogan  they  call  me,”  continued  his  new  friend, 
“  because,  though  a  heavy  man,  put  me  on  the  back  of  a  good 
horse,  suited  to  me  in  bone  and  muscle,  and,  it  is  no  boast  to 
say,  I  can  cover  you  as  much  ground,  when  need  is,  on  advance 
or  retreat,  as  courier  or  confidential  messenger,  as  the  lightest 
hop-o’-my-thumb  jockey  from  the  Causeway  to  the  Devil’s 
Punchbowl.  Such  sarvice  coming  by  nature  to  me,  afther  a 
manner,  since  my  campaigns  in  the  Low  Countries,  from  a  boy 
up.  You  have  seen  foreign  parts,  Master  Evelyn  ?” 

“Yes  ;  but  not  on  military  service.” 

“  The  more  the  pity.  It  forms  a  man’s  hand  for  his  work  at 
home,  so  dacently.  Here’s  your  weeny  lump  of  an  uncle,  now, 
could  never  have  done  such  nate  business  against  us,  t’other  day, 
only  for  a  thing  o’  the  kind.  Salvation  to  my  sowl  !  but  I’ll  be 
witness  for  him  to  the  end  o’  the  world,  that  there  isn’t  a  handier 
bit  . 11  *  creature  on  Ireland’s  ground,  this  blessed  morning- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


221 


“  Evening,  general,”  interrupted  Jeremiah. 

“  Don’t  mind  him,”  said  the  Whisperer  ;  “  it’s  the  dead  o’ 
the  night  that’s  in  it,  gineral,  honey.” 

“  Morning,  night,  or  evening,  as  it  may  be,”  continued  Jerry 
— “  here’s  my  nephew,  brother,  would  say  you  boarded  us  with 
our  free-will.” 

“  How  comes  this  rent  in  my  buff,  then  ?”  asked  Hogan, 
holding  out  his  left  arm  to  Evelyn.  “  As  I  hope  to  be  saved, 
the  little  round  man  cut  me  down  two  tall  fellows  on  the  thresh¬ 
old,  before  my  face,  and,  as  I  came  in,  myself,  ran  me  his  point 
through  and  through  the  muscle  of  this  arm  ;  my  wonder  being 
how  could  he  reach  so  high,  until  I  recollected  that  he  had  the 
two  steps  of  the  porch-door  to  help  him  half-ways  up  to  me. 
So,  no  more  talking  about  that.  All  was  fair  and  dacent ; 
give  and  take  on  both  sides  ;  clean  work,  and  who  should,  for 
it.  And,  since  I  and  my  boys  won  the  inside  o’  your  house, 
nothing  but  love  and  liking  between  us  ;  and  welcome  he  was  to 
the  best  of  every  thing,  along  with  us  ;  and  the  same  welcome 
for  you,  on  his  account,  at  present.  Only  one  little  bit  o’ 
bother  happened.  An  ould  follower  o’  yours  had  the  impudence 
to  break  faith  with  us,  after  all  was  over  ;  so  the  Whisperer 
was  forced  to  take  care  of  him,  outside  o’  the  house.  He’s 
handy  at  a  matter  o’  the  kind,  along  with  every  thing  else”— 
Rory  grinned  his  thanks  for  this  flattery — “  and  maybe  you 
met  him  on  your  way  up  the  avenue.” 

“  He  did  meet  him,”  said  the  man  who  had  ushered  Evelyn 
in.  “  While  we  watched  for  Master  Evelyn,  as  you  bid  us,  gin¬ 
eral,  we  saw  them  meeting  together.” 

“  You  had  notice  of  my  approach,  then  ?”  asked  Evelyn,  of 
the  general. 

“To  be  sure  we  had,  avich  ;  and  of  every  step  you  took  on 
the  road.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  inside  the  first  gate,  if 
we  didn’t  like  it  ?  Sure,  all  I  feared  was  that  you  might  run 
back  from  us,  the  way  you  came,  and  we  all  so  eager  to  make 
you  welcome.  And  now  let  us  think  of  a  bit  of  supper.  It’s 
past  the  time  for  it ;  but  a  nate  supper  there’s  ordered,  to 
entertain  you.  I  thank  my  God  I  kuow  good  things.  Where’s 
that  wizen-faced  witch  of  a  cook  ?” — a  subaltern  went  out  to 
seek  her.  “  Aud  first,  Master  Evelyn,  the  welcome  cup. 
Do  you  say  a  rummer  of  Cognac,  or  a  stroup  of  claret,  or  Oa 
nary  ?” 

“  The  Canary  is  out,”  said  Jerry. 


222 


THE  BOYNE  WATEit. 


“  Then  a  cup  of  sack,  or  Vin-de-Cahors  ?  all  arc  at  your  ser¬ 
vice,  Master  Evelyn.” 

Evelyn  declining  the  several  liquors  mentioned,  named  a  glass 
of  champagne,  which,  with  considerable  courtesy,  was  imme¬ 
diately  placed  before  him.  And  when  his  host  had  pledged  him 
in  a  bumper  of  claret,  toasting  “  to  their  better  acquaintance,” 
the  cook  appeared  at  the  door,  superintending  the  entrance  of 
supper.  The  moment  the  poor  woman’s  eye  met  that  of  her  old 
master,  she  stood  stock-still,  pale  as  death,  and  evidently  trem¬ 
bling — not  for  her  own  safety. 

“Walk  over  here  with  yourself,  mistress  cook,  honey,  and 
don’t  be  standing  there  with  a  face  that  ’ud  make  a  dog  strike 
his  father,”  resumed  Galloping  Hogan.  “  Moreover,  take  care, 
I  advise  you,  of  the  dishes  in  your  hands.  Ay,  now  you  find 
the  use  of  your  legs.  Put  ’em  down  there,  purtily — that  will 
do.  Now,  the  little  fellows — one,  two,  three — very  good  again. 
And  so,  Master  Evelyn,  take  your  sate,  and  your  fillin’.  Cap¬ 
tain  Willy,  come  out  o’  that  corner,  and  lave  over  playin’  with 
the  snaphance  of  your  petronel.  Little  Admiral  Jerry,  the  best 
sate  for  you.  Rory,  a-vich-ma-chree,  draw  near.  Gentlemen 
all,  to  supper.” 

The  table  soon  became  full  ;  Evelyn  not  venturing  to  decline 
the  seat,  or  the  fare,  so  generously  offered. 

“  Them  capons  has  a  pleasant  look  and  smell  about  ’em,”  con¬ 
tinued  the  host,  going  through  all  this  without  the  slightest  af¬ 
fectation  ;  indeed,  his  heavy  nature  knew  nothing  of  the  word. 
“  Ensign  Turlough’s  pet  flitch,  and  Thady’s  leg  of  mutton  are 
nice,  too  ;  the  pigeons  not  to  be  faulted,  either ;  nor  the 
salmon,  either  ;  but,  still,  the  capons  for  me.  Stop  a  bit  ;  sit 
down  a  minute,  mistress  cook,  and  swallow,  as  fast  as  you  can, 
a  man’s  share  of  every  thing  you  lay  before  us.  It’s  an  honor 
we  pay  you  every  day,  you  know,  for  a  little  raison  we  have. 
Though,  since  Master  Evelyn  is  our  guest  to-day,  the  ceremony 
might  be  overlooked,  maybe.  No  matter  ;  betther  sure  than 
sorry.  Swallow,  misthress  ;  and  fast,  fast,  or  you’ll  be  starvin’ 
us.” 

The  cook  obeyed,  and  left  the  room. 

“  And  now,  master,”  resumed  Hogan,  addressing  Evelyn, 
“  welcome  again,  and  fall  to.  Deny  me  not  that  the  supper  I 
have  ordered  you,  with  an  after  relish  of  neats’  tongues  and  cav¬ 
iare,  while  we  sip  our  wine,  does  not  disgrace  my  knowledge  or 
my  breeding.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


223 


“  It’s  manners  to  taste,  bud  not  make  a  male/7  said  tbe  Whis¬ 
perer,  conveying  a  pigeon  to  his  trencher. 

“  Lay  hoult  o7  the  flitch,  Turlough,77  cried  a  hungry  fellow. 

“  Make  mooch  o7  yourself,  Thady,77  said  a  second  Rapparee 
officer  to  a  third  at  his  elbow. 

“  Och,  I7m  aitin7  for  bets/7  answered  Thady. 

“  Who’s  at  the  outpost  ?77  inquired  the  general,  after  he  had 
somewhat  satisfied  his  hunger. 

“Johnny  Donellan/7  answered  the  Whisperer. 

“  A  good  watch/7  observed  Hogan. 

il  Never  a  betther/7  replied  Rory  ;  “he’d  know  a  Sassenach’s 
skhin  dryin7  on  a  bush.77 

The  supper  was  over  ;  the  relish,  too,  passed  away  ;  the  cham¬ 
pagne  was  unwired  ;  the  claret  bumpers  were  quaffed,  when 
two  harp-players  took  their  places  at  the  parlor-door. 

“  A  dance  !  a  dance  !77  cried  Jerry  ;  “  a  hall !  a  hall  !” 
Many  voices  joined  him  ;  and  those  in  the  other  apartment, 
catching  the  sounds,  the  answering  cheer  became  uproarious. 

“  A  dance,  then,77  said  the  general,  slowly  rising.  “Though  I 
will  but  suit  partners,  myself,  and  look  on  ;  seeing  that  your 
Irish  jig  is  accounted  too  vulgar,  and,  mayhap,  too  brisk  in  move¬ 
ment,  for  one  of  my  quality  and  weight.  Did  your  poor  musi¬ 
cians  know  any  thing  of  the  French  chausee  or  boree,  I  were 
likely  to  join  you.77  It  will  be  seen  that  the  speaker  uttered, 
at  different  times,  the  true  brogue  he  had  imbibed  in  his  child¬ 
hood,  and  the  tolerable  English  his  after-intercourse  with  the 
world  had  taught  him,  just  as  the  humors  of  familiarity  or  dig¬ 
nity  were  for  a  moment  uppermost. 

All  moved  out  to  the  hall,  Evelyn  inclusive.  The  general,  as 
he  had  promised,  made  partners.  Evelyn  wondering  at  the 
scene,  and  inclined,  in  the  midst  of  his  better  feelings,  to  laugh 
at  the  figure  he  cut  in  it,  was  introduced  to  a  southern  girl,  of 
some  beauty,  whose  glance  at  him  told  strangely  of  coquetry 
and  recognition.  Jerry  was  constant  to  the  housekeeper.  About 
a  dozen  couple,  altogether,  stood  ready  to  obey  the  first  sound 
of  the  harper’s  wire.  “  Strike  out  !”  cried  Galloping  Hogan  ; 
when,  anticipating  more  gentle  music,  a  hideous  bellowing  was 
heard  abroad,  equal  to  the  roar  of  some  dozen  mad  bulls.  An 
instant  after,  a  man  rushed  into  the  hall,  yelling  forth,  “  The 
Sassenachs  !” 

“  I  knew  it/7  said  Hogan,  “  by  your  signal  horns — silence  !” 
as  the  throng  of  women  in  the  hall  gave  meet  response  to  the 


224 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


noise  abroad — “  silence,  and  hear  my  orders  !  First,  how  fai 
are  they  off,  Johnny  Donellan  ?” 

“  About  three  miles,  when  I  saw  ’em  from  the  hill.” 

“  How  many  ?” 

“  The  double  of  us,  I  think.” 

“  Horsemen  or  foot-soldiers  ?” 

"  All  horsemen — I  seen  them  blackenin'  the  road  in  the  moon¬ 
shine.” 

“  Half  our  men  to  horse,  then.  Half  of  them,  again,  to  the 
first  gate  of  the  avenue,  the  other  to  the  second  gate.  Let  the 
rest  of  the  men  stay  in  the  house  ;  a  dozen,  only,  to  watch  at 
the  back.  But,  first  of  all,  let  hatchet,  saw,  and  pickaxe,  and 
every  man  that  hears  me,  work,  work,  work,  for  the  dear  life,  to 
tear  up  the  ground  before  both  gates,  and  fell  trees  and  bushes 
to  choke  them — speed  !  speed  F  The  hall  was  cleared  in  obe¬ 
dience  to  his  orders  :  the  Whisperer  only  stayed  with  him. 

“  They  will  give  us  time  for  this,”  the  general  continued,  “  be 
cause  they  will  advance  cautiously  ;  or  our  ambushed  pickets 
and  videttes  will  make  them  give  us  time.  You,  Master  Eve¬ 
lyn,  are  to  remain  by  my  side.  Fear  nothing — we  have  faced 
greater  odds  before  now,  and  won  the  battle.  If  they  force  in 
upon  us,  I  will  still  bother  them  ;  the  house  over  my  head  shall 
burn  to  charcoal  ere  they  possess  it — fear  nothing.” 

Evelyn  wondered  by  what  perversion  of  reason  this  speech — 
if  the  speaker  was  really  serious — could  be  meant  to  allay  his 
fears.  But  he  did  not  know  the  character  of  the  man  who  ad¬ 
dressed  him  ;  and  who — in  downright  earnest,  indeed — spoke  of 
Evelyn’s  house  as  his  own,  from  the  moment  it  had  fallen  into 
his  hands. 

“  And  then  as  to  a  retreat,”  he  continued,  “  my  name  is  not 
Galloping  Hogan,  if  I  forget  how  that  used  to  be  managed.” 

All  this  time  his  vacant  length  of  visage  underwent  no 
change  ;  his  large,  staring  gray  eyes  only  roved  from  one  face 
to  another  around  him,  as  was  their  wont ;  his  jaw  continued 
dropped,  his  mouth  open  ;  his  neck  stooped  between  his  high, 
shoulders.  Altogether  he  gave  the  appearance  of  a  man  com¬ 
pletely  free  from  agitation  or  excitement. 

“  Yon  want  a  straight  blade,”  he  went  on  ;  “  and  do  you 
fight  with  petronel  and  dagger,  also  ?” 

“Though  I  believe  I  am  no  coward,”  answered  Evelyn,  “I 
Bhould  prefer,  if  you  please,  not  to  fight  at  all  on  this  occasion.” 

“  Why  so  ?”  demanded  Hogan,  staring  at  him. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


225 


“  If  you  bring  to  mind  the  peculiarity  of  my  situation,  you 
need  scarce  ask  me,”  Evelyn  replied  ;  “  some  of  my  former 
friends,  perhaps,  are  approaching.” 

“  And  that’s  true,  sure  enough,”  casting  his  heavy  eyes  a  mo¬ 
ment  on  the  ground.  “  Here,  O’Moore  ;  stand  by  Master  Evelyn, 
in  this  window  ;  and  if  you  see  us  beaten,  shoot  him  on  the  spot.” 
And  he  strode  out,  leaving  Evelyn  in  charge  with  a  fellow  scarce 
inferior  in  stature  to  himself,  and  well-armed ;  while  from  the 
moment  he  had  entered  the  house  the  prisoner  remained  defence¬ 
less. 

The  moon  had  by  this  time  almost  set  ;  yet,  in  the  waning 
light  it  still  afforded,  Evelyn  could  discern,  through  the  window, 
a  crowd  of  men  toiling  at  the  far  gate  of  the  avenue,  to  throw 
up  the  bank  and  abatis  their  general  had  ordered.  A  deep  line 
of  horsemen  formed  behind  them.  At  the  near  gate  the  lights 
from  the  house,  together  with  the  brands  which  flamed  on  the 
spot,  and  which  were  held  mostly  by  the  wild-looking  women 
attached  to  the  band  of  Rapparees,  more  plainly  showed  the 
operations  there  carried  on.  In  the  midst  of  his  people,  Gal¬ 
loping  Hogan  soon  appeared,  striding  about  from  point  to  point, 
and  issuing  his  orders  with  his  usual  coolness,  indeed  almost  in¬ 
difference. 

Many  hands  make  light  work  ;  and  Evelyn  beheld,  with  the 
utmost  surprise,  that,  by  the  hundreds  of  strong  men  engaged 
in  the  task,  the  preparations  for  defence  were  already  nearly 
completed,  before  his  eye  and  ear  could  catch  any  signal  of  the 
arrival  of  the  enemy.  Yet  all  was  not  perfectly  arranged,  per¬ 
haps,  at  the  far  gate,  when  a  rush  of  horses  came  in  that  direction. 
A  cheer  from  the  assaulters,  and  a  yell  of  defiance  from  the  Rap¬ 
parees,  burst  on  the  night  ;  and  the  flashing  and  report  of  pistols 
and  carbines  were,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  seen  and  heard.  The 
men  on  foot,  who  had  been  working  at  the  rude  intrenchments, 
ran  up  the  avenue,  got  inside  the  second  line  of  horsemen,  who 
stood,  headed  by  Hogan,  behind  the  second  abatis,  and  joining 
their  other  dismounted  comrades  at  that  point,  rushed  in  to  gar¬ 
rison  the  house. 

“  Something  is  as  it  shouldn’t  just  be  at  the  end  gate,”  said 
Evelyn’s  guard,  glaring  ominously  at  him,  as  he  examined  the 
priming  of  the  pistol. 

*'  I  hope  you  may  be  mistaken,”  said  Evelyn.  “  None  of  your 
horsemen  flinch  a  step  ;  and,  even  suppose  they  do,  no  danger  of 
defeat  is  to  be  reckoned  ou,  while  your  general  remains  at  the 

10* 


22  6 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


head  of  his  second  line,  and  is  so  well  protected  by  the  trees 
and  earthwork.” 

“  I  don’t  know  how  that  is,”  said  the  fellow,  coolly  and  care¬ 
lessly,  as  if,  having  his  own  work  to  do,  the  action  abroad  con¬ 
cerned  him  only  as  it  regarded  the  fulfilment  of  his  orders. 

“  And  more  be  the  shame  on  you,  Deermid  O’Moore,”  cried 
a  girl,  who  had  advanced  to  the  window,  in  the  recess  of  wThicl; 
guard  and  prisoner  stood.  She  was  the  same  whom  Hogan  had 
presented  to  Evelyn  as  a  partner,  and  who,  we  should  have  men¬ 
tioned,  had  seemed  much  flattered  by  the  arrangement. 

“  Set  off  wid  yourself  afther  the  women,  Moya  Laherty,”  said 
O’Moore  ;  “they  are  far  wid  the  road  by  this  time.  Be  movin’.” 

“  Be  movin’  your  own  sef,  Deermid,”  retorted  Moya,  in  the 
flippancy  of  an  assured  beauty  of  humble  degree,  “  or  else  don’t 
be  talkin’  of  killin’  the  poor  young  genteel  afore  bis  time.” 

This  might  have  been  meant  for  Evelyn’s  comfort,  but  the 
downright  allusion  it  contained  had  a  very  different  effect. 

“  Don’t  you  be  makin’  a  ballour  o’  your  mother’s  daughter,” 
resumed  Deermid.  “  What  do  you  know  about  killin’  a  man,  or 
a  genteel  either  ?” 

“  Nothin’  at  all,  for  pace  sake  ;  any  thing  to  plase  you,  Deer¬ 
mid  a-roon.  “  Will  you  taste  ?”  holding  out  a  can  of  wine. 

“Not  that,  but  somethin’  else,  if  you’re  so  civil,  Moya.” 

“  Musha,  what  a  beau  your  granny  was,”  said  Moya,  in  her 
own  elegant  irony.  “  An’  that’s  all  you’d  be  axin’,  is  it  ?” 

“  Take  yourself  out  o’  my  way,  then,”  resumed  Deermid,  in  a 
sulk. 


“  My  mammy  she  bet  me,  an’  well  she  knew  how, 

For  stayin’  out,  dancin’  the  one-horun  cow,” 

was  Moya’s  only  reply,  as  she  faced  him,  playing  off  saucy  airs 
of  flirtation  with  her  head  and  eyes,  and  moving  her  feet  to  the 
verse  she  sang. 

“  You  won’t,  won’t  you  ?”  he  asked,  advancing  on  her. 

“  You  don’t  know  what  I’ll  be  afther  doin’  for  you.  Whisper 
a,  bit,  Deermid,”  as  she  wound  her  arms  through  his. 

Deermid  held  his  ear,  and  grinned  delight. 

“  Whist  !  we  ought  to  be  on  the  look-out,  though,”  he  re¬ 
sumed,  as  a  second  cheer  broke  from  the  assailants  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue,  and  two  full  volleys  succeeded  to  the  dropping  fire 
that,  for  the  last  few  minutes,  had  been  heard. 

“The  boys  gi’  them  never  an  answer,”  Deermid  continued 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


227 


“  Nien,”  said  Moya  ;  “  they’re  too  hard  at  their  work  to  mind 
'em.  Bud,  stop  now,  a-cuishla,”  clinging  close  to  him,  as  if  for 
support.  “  My  sowl  to  glory,  if  they  don’t  gallop  up  to  the 
house  !  Hould  yourself  asy,  Deermid,”  as  he  struggled  to  free 
his  arm,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Evelyn. 

Wrought  upon  by  the  sounds  of  retreat  abroad,  as  well  as  by 
the  dialogue  he  heard,  the  spasm-terror  of  death  came  on  Eve¬ 
lyn’s  heart.  His  temples  grew  moist,  his  eyes  swam,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  lean  against  the  walls  of  the  window-recess  for  support, 

“  An’  they  don’t  run  away,  afther  all,”  Moya  rejoined,  “  bar- 
rin’  it’s  only  for  fun,  like.  See,  Deermid,  honey,  Captain  Willy 
draws  ’em  up  agin  acrass  the  middle  o’  the  avenue.” 

“  An’  now  cum  the  Sassenachs  to  try  ’em  another  bout,”  said 
O’Moore.  “  They  only  waited  to  form  themsefs  afther  breakin’ 
the  fence-work.  Curp-an-duoul  !  what  a  power  of  ’em  is  in  it ! 
An’  look  at  their  ginerals  an’  captains  1” 

“  Look,  above  all  the  rest,  at  the  dark  man  that  rides  on  afore 
his  sodgers.  See,  now,  he  is  the  first  to  lep  his  horse  agin  our 
men.  Christ  save  us  !  That’s  frightful !” 

“  He’s  the  red  divil,  I  believe,”  cried  Deermid.  “  While  the 
two  throops  is  at  their  work,  threena-chela ,*  look  how  he  lays 
round  him — a  man  down  for  every  slash.  Witherin’  to  his  arm  I 
It’ll  be  the  ruin  of  us.” 

“  Never  say  it !”  cried  Moya,  clapping  her  hands,  while  an 
arm  was  still  passed  through  one  of  her  companion’s.  “  Captain 
Willy  picks  him  out,  now.  Power  to  your  elbow,  captain,  jewel  I 
Och  1  the  Willy  you  war  ?” 

Evelyn,  excited  beyond  the  momentary  influence  of  his  first 
natural  fears,  had  started  to  the  window. 

“  Do  you  know  that  dark  man,  that  now  crosses  his  sword 
wid  the  captain  ?”  O’Moore  demanded  of  him.  Evelyn  looked 
attentively  ;  the  flaring  light  from  the  house  fully  illuminated 
the  faces  and  figures  of  the  combatants. 

“  That  man  I  know,”  he  answered,  fixing,  in  rallied  spirits,  a 
watchful  glance  on  his  guard. 

“  Better  for  you  if  you  never  did  know  him,”  observed  Deer¬ 
mid,  as  he  again  peered  out.  “  By  the  mother  o’  saints,  Cap¬ 
tain  Willy  is  down  at  the  first  thrust !” 

“  What’s  the  matter  for  that  ?”  exclaimed  Moya  ;  “  the  gin- 
era!  has  his  fresh  men,  yet.  All’s  not  lost  that’s  in  danger.” 


*  Pell-mell. 


228 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  All  must  be  lost,”  replied  O’Moore  ;  “  the  giueral's  tbroop 
isn’t  one  to  ten  agin  the  Sassenach.  An’  see  !  now  he’s  left 
alone  wid  that  throop  only  at  his  side — Captain  Willy’s  men 
are  breakin’  off  through  the  gaps  in  the  avenue  wall,  or  through 
the  thick  o’  the  Sassenach,  down  to  the  far  gate,  or  across  the 
fence — God’s  curse  on  their  heads  ! — to  thrample  it  down,  and 
make  it  asy  for  their  enemies.  Lave  my  way,  Moya  !” — sbe  had 
got  between  him  and  Evelyn — “  Let  us  do  our  gineral’s  bid- 
din’,  an’  then  take  care  of  oursefs !  Stand  a  one  side,  I  say  ! 
The  men  in  the  house  are  quittin’  it  !”  His  eyes  turned  on  his 
prisoner.  Evelyn,  now  collected,  and  resolved  on  a  struggle  for 
life,  riveted  his  on  the  pistol,  watching  its  motions. 

“  Look,  yet  1”  still  cried  Moya,  struggling  with  him,  as  she 
still  strove  to  look  out — “  they’re  not  over  the  fence  yet — an’ 
it’s  harder  for  ’em,  now,  with  the  hapes  o’  dead  men  an’  horses. 
Now  they  thry  it — now  1” 

“  An’  now  they  crass  it !”  roared  O’Moore,  as  another  tre¬ 
mendous  shout  and  a  full  volley  echoed  abroad.  “  See  what  a 
gap  that  volley  makes  in  our  last  line  !  An’  see  that  born  divil, 
yet — see  how  he  mows  ’em  down  !  Three  times  the  gineral  and 
he  met,  but  the  hurry  parted  them.” 

“  They  meet  agin,  Deermid  !” 

“  They  do,  but  he  gits  off  agin  !  An’  now  the  gineral  is  al¬ 
most  alone — run,  run,  gineral !  Why  doesn’t  he  run  ?  his  life 
is  worth  us  a  thousand  men.  Look,  look  !  he  gallops  off,  at 
last,  an’  now  let  the  best  o’  them  ketch  him.” 

A  final  shout  testified  the  retreat  of  the  Rapparees  abroad. 
Those  that  remained  in  the  house  gave  one  volley  from  the  win¬ 
dows,  and  hastened  to  follow  them  through  the  back  entrance. 
The  salute  was  returned  by  the  assaulters,  and  many  bullets 
whizzed  through  the  glass,  by  Evelyn’s  ears.  At  the  same  mo¬ 
ment  a  smell  of  fire  became  perceptible,  and  the  hall  filled  with 
smoke. 

“  The  last  bidden  is  done  I”  cried  O’Moore — “  all  but  mine  is 
done.  Kneel  down  I” — to  Evelyn. 

“  Musha,  never  heed  him,  Deermid,  for  my  sake  1”  suddenly 
appealed  Moya,  at  last  showing  a  hitherto  disguised  purpose,  as 
she  yet  endeavored  to  pinion,  half  in  fondling,  but  with  her 
whole  strength,  the  right  arm  of  the  ruffian.  Evelyn’s  eye  re¬ 
mained  fixed,  and  he  braced  himself  for  an  effort. 

“  No  ;  not  for  the  sake  o’  the  mother  that  bore  me  l’; 
O’Moore  answered,  shakiug  her  off,  as  the  smoke  increased,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  229 

a  loud  assault  seemed  to  be  made  on  the  door  of  the  house.  At 
the  same  time  he  raised  his  arm  over  her  head. 

— “Then,  only  because  I  like  it,”  Moya  added,  jumping 
aside,  and  dashing  the  cup  of  wine,  which  she  had  placed  on  the 
floor,  over  the  pistol.  O’Moore  pulled  the  trigger,  but  the  damp 
powder  did  not  ignite.  “  Thry  a  wrastle  wid  him,  now,  if  you’re 
a  man  !”  she  went  ou,  turning  to  Evelyn,  with  the  spirit  and  ex¬ 
pression  of  a  young  tigress.  Evelyn  did  not  need  the  hint ;  he 
had  closed  on  O’Moore  in  an  instant.  They  tugged  and  strained  ; 
but  the  Rapparee  soon  flung  his  antagonist  on  the  floor.  Then 
freeing  another  pistol  from  his  belt,  he  was  about  to  discharge 
it,  or  to  prepare  to  do  so,  when  Moya,  snatching  his  skein  from 
the  same  place,  struck  it  into  his  left  shoulder.  He  fell  instant¬ 
ly  ;  rolled  over  once  or  twice  on  the  floor  ,  and  then,  turning  his 
eyes  upon  her,  died.  At  the  same  instant  the  porch  door  was 
burst  open,  and  a  body  of  armed  men  rushed  in  through  the 
smoke. 

“  Here  comes  the  dark  man,  that  is  your  frieud,”  cried  Moya, 
“  an’  you  are  safe.  God  speed  you  !  it’s  often  I  seen  you  afore 
this  night,  an’  wished  you  well,  when  you  little  thought  of  me. 
An’  now  I’m  afther  doin’,  for  your  sake,  what  my  own  blood 
used  to  run  cold  at  seein’  done.  Loock  an’  speed,  I  say — an’, 
now  an’  then,  think  o’  poor  Moya  Laherty.”  She  hastily  kissed 
his  lips,  her  tears  falling  on  his  face,  and  had  passed  out  of  the 
hall  by  the  time  that  Walker,  followed  by  a  number  of  strange 
men,  came  up  with  Evelyn. 

“  He  is  unhurt !”  cried  the  clergyman,  as  they  exchanged  a 
greeting  ;  “  but  he  is  weak.  Bear  him  out,  soldiers,  and  quickly, 
the  house  fires  fast.” 

When  Evelyn  regained  his  self-possession,  in  the  open  air, 
Walker  presented  him  to  other  gentlemen,  by  whom  he  was  sur¬ 
rounded.  After  mentioning  some  names,  “This,”  he  said,  “is 
Sir  Arthur  Rawdon  ;  this,  my  Lord  Mount  Alexander,  your 
commander.  By  him,  and  partly  by  the  very  troop  you  are 
commissioned  to  command,  your  life — 1  regret  I  cannot  add 
your  property — has  this  night  been  saved.  I  heard  of  the  at¬ 
tack  on  your  house,  by  these  miscreants  ;  and  knowing  that  you 
nad  returned  to  it,  gave  an  intimation  to  friends,  who  were  not 
remiss  in  your  behalf.  Look  here!”  Mr.  Walker  continued,  a 
the  flames,  rapidly  devouring  the  combustible  building,  burst 
through  it  at  the  moment.  Then  taking  Evelyn  aside,  “  Are 
you  now  ready,”  he  asked,  “  to  forswear  a  king  and  a  government 


230 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


in  whose  name  such  atrocities  are  perpetrated  ?  Is  there  now 
any  thing  to  delay  you  from  joining  your  companions  in  arms  ?” 

“Need  I  be  asked  such  questions,  Mr.  Walker?  Am  I  a 
man,  to  behold  that  sight,  without  a  man’s  feelings  ?  When 
can  1  join  my  brave  men  ?  How  soon  can  I  have  the  honor  of 
heading  them  on  good  service  ?” 

“  This  moment  you  can  join  them  ;  and  very  soon,  I  believe, 
there  may  be  an  answer  to  your  second  question.  Follow  me  1” 

They  regained  the  group  of  officers,  around  and  before  whom 
more  than  one  troop  had,  returning  from  pursuit,  got  into  order. 

“  Men  1”  cried  Walker,  addressing  one  of  them,  “  behold  your 
captain,  Mr.  Robert  Evelyn.” 

They  waved  their  caps  ;  and  the  shout  of  recognition  with 
which  he  was  received  thrilled  through  the  veins  of  Evelyn. 

Jerry  disappeared  with  the  Rapparees  ;  his  nephew  supposed 
to  join  them  and  their  liberal  courses,  with  a  free  will. 


CHAPTER  X  Y  III 

“Tyrconnel,”  said  Walker  to  Evelyn,  as  the  next  day  th«y 
took  their  route,  along  with  Lord  Mount  Alexander  and  Sir  Ar¬ 
thur  Rawdon,  and  the  body  of  men  they  commanded,  to  garrison 
Dromore  and  Newry,  two  considerable  towns  in  the  county  of 
Down — the  latter  so  far  southward  as  almost  to  border  on  the 
province  of  Leinster — “  Tyrconnel,  having  seen  the  mistake  he 
made  in  sending  the  gallant  Mountjoy  to  Derry,  has,  after  issuing 
a  vain  proclamation  against  our  Northern  Union,  at  last  ap¬ 
pointed  a  proper  man  to  command  his  rebel  army.  I  mean 
Lieutenant-General  Hamilton.” 

“  He  who  has  served  with  such  character  in  France  ?”  asked 
Evelyn. 

“The  same;  and  more.  The  very  man  who,  having  been 
taken  prisoner  in  England  at  the  head  of  the  first  Irish  levy  sent 
over  to  assist  James,  caused,  by  his  counsels  to  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  the  present  obstinate  continuance  of  Papist  spirit  in 
Ireland.” 

“How  so,  Mr.  Walker?” 

“It  is  knowu  that  he  prevailed  on  William  to  allow  him  to 


THE  BOYNE  W.ATER. 


231 


pass  into  Ireland,  only  on  the  conditions  of  doing  all  in  his  power 
to  persuade  Tyrconnel  to  give  up  the  cause  of  the  abdicated 
bigot.  Before  his  arrival  here,  the  lord-lieutenant,  dispirited 
by  the  flight  of  James,  the  arming  in  the  north,  and  the  general 
bad  prospect  of  affairs,  was  well  disposed  to  listen  to  such  coun¬ 
sel.  But  the  moment  Hamilton  found  himself  in  Ireland,  instead 
of  urging  the  advice  he  had  agreed  with  the  prince  to  follow,  he 
applied  himself,  by  every  argument  in  his  power,  to  rally  Tyr- 
connel’s  hopes,  and  change  his  plans  from  submission  to  resist¬ 
ance.  He  succeeded  ;  aud  the  result  is  the  near  approach  of  a 
civil  war.  James  is  every  day  expected  from  France  in  person  ; 
and  the  campaign  opens  by  the  march  of  Hamilton  from  Dublin, 
to  put  down  our  Protestant  levies,  and  reduce  Derry  to  submis¬ 
sion.  Let  him  try  both.  I  do  not  fear  the  trial  of  either.” 

“  Nor  I,”  said  Evelyn,  “  with  such  brave  fellows  as  now  sur¬ 
round  us.  Has  Hamilton  yet  left  Dublin  ?” 

“We  surmise  he  has  ;  but  we  are  prepared  for  him.” 

“  Where  is  it  proposed  to  make  the  first  stand  ?” 

“  Look  around  you/’  said  Walker,  as  they  approached  the 
suburbs  of  a  small  town.  “  This  is  Hillsborough,  the  principal 
rendezvous  of  our  newly  levied  force.  See,  yonder  spreads  their 
camp,  and  a  considerable  body  quarter  in  the  town.  But  it  is 
resolved  to  push  on  a  good  army  to  Newry,  and  there  first  try 
the  mettle  of  this  invader  of  our  Protestant  north.” 

“How  fares  the  Munster  Union,  Mr.  Walker?” 

“  I  grieve  to  say,  already  broken  up  by  the  perseverance  of 
its  enemies.  We,  however,  are  better  prepared,  and  must  suc¬ 
ceed  better  :  the  Lord  is  with  us,  and  the  Evil  One  against  us. 
Farewell !  here  we  part,  as  I  take  a  western  road,  to  return  to 
my  own  charge — the  strong  place  of  Dungannon.” 

By  quick  marches,  Evelyn,  his  noble  commanders,  and  their 
strong  detachment,  joined  by  the  main  force  of  the  army  at 
Hillsborough,  gained  Newry  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day. 
Arrived  there,  two  pieces  of  intelligence  awaited  them :  first, 
that  William  and  Mary  had  been  crowned  in  London  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  month  ;  secondly,  that  Hamilton  was  certainly 
on  his  route  from  the  Irish  metropolis.  The  one  event  was  hailed 
by  public  acclamations,  and  by  proclaiming  the  new  monarch  ; 
the  other  met  attention  in  the  bustle  of  preparation  that  im¬ 
mediately  became  evident.  Men  and  officers  spent  every  avail¬ 
able  hour  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the  tactics  and  discipline 
that,  as  newly-raised  militia,  they  naturally  wanted  ;  and  Eve- 


232 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


lyn,  amongst  the  rest,  was  on  horseback,  sword  in  hand,  from 
morning  to  night. 

Few  days  were,  however,  allowed  them  for  this  necessary  task, 
when  Lieutenant-General  Hamilton  appeared  before  Newry.  As 
had  been  determined  upon,  the  officers  of  the  Protestant  Union 
proposed  to  give  him  battle.  But  the  spirits  of  the  new  soldiers 
were  not  found  to  correspond  with  this  arrangement,  and  the 
army  accordingly  retired  to  Dromore,  before  an  enemy  not  su¬ 
perior  in  numbers,  and,  after  all,  chiefly  composed  of  levies  as 
recent  as  their  own,  and  not  better  disciplined  or  appointed. 

This  movement  was,  however,  useless.  Hamilton  rapidly  fol¬ 
lowed  them  to  Dromore,  and  the  battle  they  might  as  well  have 
ventured  at  Newry,  there  became  necessary.  It  was  fought, 
and  ended  in  the  total  defeat  of  the  Northern  Union,  amongst 
whom  the  slaughter  there  proved  great,  as  well  on  the  field  as 
along  the  road  to  Hillsborough.  At  Hillsborough,  indeed,  they 
made  a  second  stand,  but  the  result  was  even  more  unfortunate. 
The  enemy  quickly  routed  them  out  of  the  place,  pursued,  and 
almost  entirely  dispersed  them  ;  and,  seizing  the  castle  and 
depots,  became  possessed  of  all  the  papers  of  the  General  Coun¬ 
cil  of  Union,  which  had  previously  met  at  Hillsborough,  as  well 
as  of  the  provisions  and  other  stores  of  the  Protestant  army 
In  fact,  only  four  thousand  men,  kept  together  by  the  exertions 
of  Lord  Mount  Alexander  and  Sir  Arthur  Rawdon,  were  able 
to  muster  after  this  defeat.  They,  flying  over  the  whole  stretch 
of  the  county  of  Antrim,  took  their  route  to  Coleraine. 

In  the  first  action,  before  Dromore,  Evelyn  had  been  slightly 
wounded.  While  endeavoring,  with  some  of  his  brother  officers, 
and  a  handful  of  men,  to  cover  the  retreat  from  Hillsborough,  a 
worse  accident  befell  him.  One  of  Hamilton’s  soldiers  slew  his 
horse  with  a  thrust  of  a  handpike,  and,  ere  he  could  fully  extri¬ 
cate  himself  from  the  saddle,  aimed  a  second  b&w  at  himself 
The  weapon  turned  wide  of  Evelyn,  and,  striking  against  a  stone,, 
snapped  across  ;  but,  with  the  heavy  wooden  handle,  the  fellow 
dealt  him  a  furious  knock  on  the  head,  and  Evelyn  lost  all  con¬ 
sciousness. 

When  he  regained  his  senses,  every  thing  was  quiet  around 
him,  except  the  trickle  of  a  little  stream  near  at  hand.  The 
moon  shone  bright,  and  the  stars  twinkled  merrily  through  the 
cloudless  blue  sky  on  which  his  eyes  opened.  A  sensation  o» 
extreme  cold  and  numbness  affected  him.  He  strove  to  move  ; 
but  his  first  effort  was,  through  loss  of  blood  and  consequent 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


233 


exhaustion,  useless.  At  last  he  sat  up.  A  soldier,  also  sitting, 
confronted  him,  and,  with  looks  of  great  cousteruation,  demanded 
if  he  was  alive.  Receiving  the  proper  assurances,  he  acquainted 
his  companion  in  suffering  that,  from  a  bad  wound  in  the  thigh, 
he,  too,  had  been  unable  to  quit  the  field  ;  but,  he  added,  there 
was  some  consolation  left ;  and  thereupon  he  put  his  hand  behind 
his  back,  and  produced  a  small  bottle  of  brandy,  and  a  good 
piece  of  oaten  bread. 

“  I  hid  ’em,”  he  said,  “  when  I  saw  you  move  ;  but  you  are 
now  welcome  to  a  share — and  a  waur  thing  than  a  mouthful  o’ 
brandy  and  oatcake  ye  might  have  till  your  supper  after  such  a 
day.  Ah,  yon’s  a  gude  wife — the  best  in  the  bonuy  north  ! — 
and  it’s  now  I  wonder  how  I  ever  took  heart  to  leave  her.  Ill 
luck  to  the  Papists  I  A  canny  wife  singing  at  the  ingle-corner, 
and  a  merry  loom,  and  I  singing  at  it,  had  never  brought  me  to 
this.” 

Evelyn  thankfully  partook  of  bottle  and  cake,  and  soon  found 
himself  better.  Refreshed,  he  then  moved  in  the  direction  of 
the  stream,  guided  by  its  sound  ;  washed  the  black  blood  from 
his  hair ;  bathed  the  wound  with  another  small  portion  of 
brandy  ;  bound  it,  from  the  chill  air,  with  a  handkerchief ;  and, 
finally,  looked  round  him  for  a  horse.  Of  many  which  grazed 
quietly  on  the  field,  perhaps  between  the  dead  bodies  of  those 
who  a  short  time  since  were  their  masters,  he  soou  selected  one  ; 
and  returning  with  him  to  his  accidental  comrade,  announced  his 
intention  of  trying  to  get  to  Derry. 

“  And  leave  me  here  to  perish,  after  my  cake  and  brandy  ?” 
the  poor  fellow  asked.  But  Evelyn  assured  him  they  should  not 
part  till  he  had  lodged  him  under  some  friendly  roof  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  man  urged  him  against  his  intended  jour¬ 
ney,  for  his  own  sake.  The  Irish  would  be  abroad,  he  said,  all 
over  the  road  ;  he  would  meet  sworn  enemies  at  every  step. 
And  Belfast — that  would  be  filled  with  Hamilton’s  soldiers,  and 
he  could  never  pass  it  ;  and,  even  if  he  did,  Hamilton  would 
be  before  him  at  Derry,  and  he  never  could  get  into  the  town. 

The  prospect  of  these  manifold  dangers  did  not  deter  Evelyn 
from  his  purpose.  He  raised  the  wounded  man  to  the  saddle  ; 
led  the  horse,  till  he  had  succeeded  in  finding  the  residence  of 
a  Protestant  peasant  ;  there  deposited  his  charge ;  and  now 
mounting,  himself,  took  a  by-road  towards  Belfast.  Although 
he  agreed  with  his  Job’s  comforter  that  some  danger  must  be  in¬ 
curred  in  trying  to  pass  by  or  through  Belfast,  Evelyn  had 


234 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


stronger  apprehensions  of  the  road  further  on  at  Carrickfergus. 
Still  he  determined,  using  the  utmost  caution,  to  risk  every  thing 
rather  than  stay  away  from  his  sister,  during  the  siege  that  now 
threatened  the  city  in  which  she  resided.  He  thought  if  he 
could  but  succeed  in  clearing  the  two  towns,  already  mentioned, 
he  might,  with  little  prospect  of  interruption,  then  continue  his 
journey  along  the  coast-road,  on  which,  in  the  beginning  of  this 
tale,  we  have  already  seen  him  a  traveller.  The  better  to  take 
his  chance,  Evelyn,  on  his  first  stage,  at  the  early  break  of  day, 
divested  himself  of  his  military  costume  and  accoutrements,  re¬ 
taining  only  a  case  of  small  pistols,  and  assuming  the  dress  of 
a  peasant,  put  his  trust  in  Heaven,  and  pursued  his  perilous 
way. 

Belfast  was  cleared  ;  Carrickfergus  was  left  behind  ;  and 
Evelyn’s  spirits  rose,  as  he  found  himself  free,  and  seemingly  un¬ 
observed,  on  the  rude  mountain-road,  before  described,  between 
the  villages  of  Larne  and  Grlenarm.  He  dismounted  at  the  door 
of  a  miserable  cabin  to  seek  some  food.  While  he  partook  of 
it,  the  woman  of  the  hovel  informed  him  that,  early  that  morn¬ 
ing,  a  party  of  Lord  Antrim’s  Redshanks  had  been  scouring  the 
country  in  quest  of  the  Protestant  runaways  from  Hillsborough  ; 
that  they  had  gone  the  very  road  he  came,  arranging  to  return ; 
and  that,  as  he  had  not  met  them,  they  must  have  taken  another 
course,  across  the  hills,  and  could  not  be  far  off. 

This  intelligence  put  an  end  to  his  towering  hopes  ;  but  he 
was  really  alarmed  when  the  poor  woman,  standing  at  the  dooi, 
interrupted  her  own  narration  by  declaring  that  she  now  got 
a  glimpse  of  the  Redshanks,  returning.  Evelyn  was  on  horse¬ 
back  in  a  moment.  Ere  he  dashed  spurs  into  his  good  stout 
steed,  he  looked  back  in  the  saddle,  and  plainly  saw  a  military 
party  just  mastering  the  brow  of  the  last  hill  he  had  cleared  on 
the  road.  But  as  he  then  started  very  near  the  summit  of 
another,  and  in  a  few  minutes  could  put  it  between  him  and 
them,  he  yet  held  hopes  of  escape,  by  concealment. 

So,  on  he  pressed  against  the  steep  road  ;  his  horse,  though 
jaded,  not  refusing  to  put  forth  its  whole  strength,  to  gain  the 
relief  of  the  level  at  the  top  of  the  ascent,  and  the  sweep  down¬ 
ward  at  the  other  side.  But,  ere  the  willing  animal  could  so  far 
serve  his  temporary  master,  the  effort  became  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  fell. 

Evelyn  jumped  up  uninjured  ;  but  when  he  regained  his 
seat  in  the  saddle,  whip  and  spur  failed  in  their  usual  effect.  . 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


23S 

Again  looking  back,  he  saw  the  mounted  soldiers  stop  a  moment 
to  speak  with  the  old  woman  he  had  just  quitted,  and  then  gal¬ 
lop  towards  him  with  increased  speed.  Thus  pressed,  Evelyn 
altogether  abandoned  the  horse,  and,  trusting  to  his  own  feet, 
oounded  up  the  hilly  road,  soon  gained  level  ground,  and  lost 
sight  of  his  pursuers. 

But  he  knew  that,  by  keeping  the  straight  way,  he  could  con¬ 
ceal  his  person  and  motions  from  them  only  during  the  time  they 
took  to  achieve  his  present  vantage-ground.  This  made  him 
determine  to  trust  for  safety  to  some  retreat  among  the  rude 
scenery  at  either  side.  He  broke,  therefore,  at  his  right  hand, 
through  a  natural  fence  of  wild  bush,  which,  in  line  with  more 
solid  boundaries,  had  hitherto  shut  out  all  prospect,  in  that  direc¬ 
tion,  save  the  sky.  Looking  down,  there  was  now  a  vast  and  sad¬ 
den  sweep  of  green  land,  immediately  under  him  ;  a  tremendous 
valley,  in  fact,  running  parallel  to  the  road  ;  with  successive  falls 
of  rough  ground  beyond  it,  and  the  ocean  seen  over  all.  He 
plunged  almost  headlong  down  ;  and,  his  legs  failing  him  at  the 
first  bound,  he  rolled  with  great  rapidity,  though  without  ma¬ 
terial  hurt,  to  the  bottom  ;  ran  across  to  its  opposite  side ;  soon 
mastered  the  summit  ;  and  ere  he  proceeded  further,  once  more 
glanced  behind  him.  The  .height  from  which  he  had  cast  him¬ 
self  seemed  immense.  Upon  it  the  Redshanks  stood,  as  if  won¬ 
dering  at  his  progress,  or  uncertain  how  they  should  follow  him. 
In  another  instant  they  were  in  motion,  and  Evelyn  was  at  the 
far  side  of  the  valley,  again  shut  out  from  their  notice. 

On  he  hurried,  over  height  after  height,  the  ground  now 
rocky  and  wild,  and  each  descent  dipping  lower  than  the  former 
one,  until  he  gained  a  level,  which,  extending  horizontally  right 
and  left,  gave  promise  of  an  easy  approach  to  the  sea,  whose 
waters  did  not,  to  his  inexperienced  eye,  seem  far  removed  from 
nor  far  under  it.  So,  mustering  his  last  strength  and  speed,  he 
raced  to  the  edge  of  the  level,  gained  it,  and  was  preparing  to 
jump  over,  when  he  started  back  in  horror  from  a  precipice  that 
fell,  straight  under  him,  into  a  dizzy  depth  and  space  of  the  wild¬ 
est  and  most  broken  ground,  which  sweep  after  sweep,  curve 
after  curve,  still  lay  between  him  and  the  ocean. 

Evelyn  looked  round  almost  in  despair  ;  a  cruel  and,  from 
private  causes,  a  particularly  enraged  foe  at  his  back,  and  noth¬ 
ing  before  him  but  the  impassable  or  merciless  precipice.  His 
nerves  got  into  some  disorder  ;  his  self-possession  wavered  ;  he 
half  felt  the  not  unusual  and  terrible  impulse  to  cast  himself  for 


236 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ward  ;  but,  at  the  moment,  a  large  eagle  screemed  over  his  head 
— his  eye  became  diverted — his  attention  fixed — he  looked  up  at 
the  royal  bird,  and  saw  it  with  outstretched  wings,  descending, 
slowly  and  stately,  from  its  realm  of  mid-air,  uninfluenced  by 
the  angry  gust  that  came  from  the  ocean.  Almost  at  the  same 
time,  a  fox  started  close  by  Evelyn,  his  bush  trailing  the  ground, 
and  his  neck  cowering.  The  eagle,  not  regarding  him,  suddenly 
shot,  at  Evelyn’s  left,  into  the  wild  depth  beneath,  and  became 
invisible.  The  eye  of  our  fugitive  followed,  by  an  impulse  of 
hope,  the  track  of  the  less  noble  animal,  traced  him  along  the 
continued  edge  of  the  precipice  to  his  left,  and  saw  him,  as  the 
range  became  depressed,  disappear  along  it.  With  the  hardi¬ 
hood  of  despair,  he  followed  the  rugged  way  thus  pointed  out. 
In  a  moment  the  fox  again  met  his  eye,  still  pursuing  the 
sinking  line  of  the  precipice,  and,  at  last,  deviating  from  it  into 
the  rocky  valley.  Evelyn  reassumed  his  full  speed  ;  in  a  short 
time  arrived  at  a  place  where  the  wall  of  rock  had  ended,  and 
where  a  descent  from  the  high  ground  was  rendered  practicable, 
though  very  difficult,  along  the  steep  side  of  a  pathless,  rock- 
strewn,  and  crumbling  hill.  Without  a  moment’s  pause,  how¬ 
ever,  and,  now,  without  venturing  to  look  behind  him,  he  re¬ 
commenced  his  flight  into  the  abyss,  calling  upon  it,  in  his  heart, 
to  give  him,  against  the  hatred  of  his  fellow-men,  the  same  sav¬ 
age  shelter  it  did  not  refuse  to  the  wild  animal  whose  flight  had 
opened  it  to  him. 

With  speed  necessarily  checked,  and  with  a  precaution  that 
even  the  assurance  of  close  pursuit  could  not  affect,  he  continued 
for  a  time  his  scrambling  way  obliquely  downward,  and  at  last 
sank,  completely  exhausted,  amid  an  inclosure  of  shivered  rock, 
and  little  mounds  of  earth  and  stone,  one  of  many  similar  re¬ 
treats  around  him.  Here  Evelyn  lay  panting  for  some  time,  he 
could  not  tell  how  long,  when  his  attention  was  re-excited  by 
the  falling  of  loose  earth  and  stones,  over  his  head.  Starting  to 
his  feet,  and  looking  up,  he  saw  four  men  in  rude  military  cos¬ 
tume,  half  visible  over  the  highest  part  of  the  in  closure,  and 
with  their  carbines,  covering  him,  rested  upon  it. 

“  Stand  !  stand  1”  they  cried  out ;  and,  as  they  spoke,  an 
officer  hastily  parted  from  them,  evidently  with  intent  to  ap¬ 
proach  Evelyn  by  a  more  circuitous  way.  He  had  thus  a 
moment’s  reflection.  Determining  not  to  be  dragged  from  his 
mountain  lair,  without  a  bloody  struggle,  he  disengaged,  with 
as  little  motion  as  possible,  a  pistol  from  his  inside  belt,  cocked 
it,  and  put  his  finger  on  the  trigger. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


237 


The  officer  soon  appeared,  entering  the  little  amphitheatre  by 
the  same  opening  through  which  Evelyn  had  passed  into  it 
Evelyn  stood  with  his  side  to  him,  fully  and  desperately  pre¬ 
pared.  Advancing  nearer,  his  sword  drawn — 

“  I  arrest  you,  in  the  name  of  King  James !”  he  exclaimed  ; 
"surrender  or  die.” 

“  No  surrender  ! — death  1 — but  not  alone  !”  replied  Evelyn, 
discharging  his  pistol.  The  moment  he  had  pulled  the  trigger, 
he  recognized  his  old  friend,  Edmund  M’Dounell.  With  a  loud 
cry,  he  let  his  pistol  fall,  clasped  his  hands  together,  started 
back,  and  cried — “  Merciful  God !  what  have  I  done  !” 

“  Nothiug,  Mr.  Evelyn,”  answered  M’Donuell,  quite  unhurt. 
“  Soldiers  !” — speaking  up  to  them,  as,  at  the  report  of  the  shot, 
they  again  brought  to  bear  on  Evelyn  the  arms  that  their  offi¬ 
cer’s  approach  to  the  fugitive  drew  for  a  moment  from  their 
mark — “  soldiers  ! — recover  arms  1 — I  am  not  hit — it  was  acci¬ 
dent.  You  have  done  nothiug,  sir  ;  for  I  see  you  no  more 
knew  me,  than,  in  such  a  garb,  I  knew  you.” 

“  There  you  do  me  justice.  I  did  not  know  you,  by  my  life, 
M’Donuell  ;  and  you  cannot,  yourself,  rejoice  more  heartily 
than  I  do,  that  my  shot  has  proved  harmless.” 

They  stood  a  moment  silently  regarding  each  other. 

“  Now,”  Evelyn  continued,  as,  with  the  rapidity  of  a  spring- 
tide,  old  recollections  swelled  up  in  his  heart — “  now  let  us 
again  exchange — and  with  more  consistency  than  ever — the 
hostile  greeting  you  gave  me  on  the  banks  of  the  Foyle,  Ed¬ 
mund.” 

M’ Donnell  offered  his  hand  ;  but  not  so  sternly  as  before. 

“  And  now,”  added  Evelyn,  presenting  his  second  pistol — 
“  now  I  am  your  prisoner.” 

“  Not  so,”  answered  M’Donnell,  his  own  eyes  glistening,  as 
he  refused  the  pistol — “not  so,  for  two  reasons.  You  would 
have  followed  up  your  shot,  by  a  second,  had  I  been  a  stranger. 
Perhaps  your  first  had  told  better,  but  for  your  confusion  at 
seeing  me.  And,  had  I  known  your  person,  we  should  not 
have  met  thus,  at  all.  I  need  not  say  that  personal  feelings  act, 
in  the  breast  of  an  honorable  man,  so  as  to  turn  him  aside,  on 
his  public  course,  from  injuring  a  private — enemy — foe — or  one 
he  is  not  friends  with — rather  than  impel  him  to  use  official 
power  for  their  gratification.  We  are  both  above  the  meanness 
of  seeking  or  even  availing  ourselves  of  a  personal  advantage, 
thus  obtained.  Therefore,  you  are  no  prisoner  of  mine,”  he  add- 


238 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ed,  sheathing  his  sword — “you  cannot — could  not  be.  There 
has  been  no  struggle,  and  therefore  no  victory.  There  is  now  no 
summons,  and  therefore  no  surrender.” 

“  You  have  argued  it  fairly,  I  believe.  I  thank  you,  M’Don¬ 
nell,”  said  Evelyn,  much  moved. 

“  If  I  have  argued  it  only  fairly,  thank  me  not  at  all,”  re¬ 
turned  M’Donnell. 

“  Captain  M’Donnell,  wull  your  honor  please  to  bring  oop 
the  prisoner  V ’  here  demanded  the  sergeant  of  the  party,  a  braw 
Scot,  who,  rather  late  on  the  field,  had  just  arrived  with  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  the  men,  excepting  those  left  behind  to  take  charge 
of  the  horses. 

“  This  gentleman  cannot  be  made  our  prisoner/’  answered 
Edmund  ;  “  on  the  contrary,  particular  circumstances  give  him 
a  claim  on  our  protection.  Draw  off  the  men,  sergeant,  to 
Glenarm,  and  I  will  stay  to  conduct  him  out  of  this  difficult 
place.”  A  mutter,  if  not  a  murmur  of  voices,  was  heard 
amongst  the  men  above.  The  sergeant  again  spoke,  request¬ 
ing  to  know,  with  all  duty,  “  What  for  did  the  gentleman  flee 
awa’,  then  ?”  adding,  that  many  of  the  men  thought  his  honor 
might  be  mistaken,  inasmuch  as  the  gentleman  was  well  known 
to  them,  as  Master  Robert  Evelyn,  a  traitor  in  arms  against 
King  James  ;  one  whom  Lord  Antrim  particularly  wished  to 
secure  ;  and,  along  with  that,  one  who  had  done  muckle  wrong 
and  insult  to  the  clan  M’Donnell,  and  to  his  honor’s  am  sel,  as 
the  head  of  that  clan. 

M’Donnell,  in  an  angry  tone,  again  desired  the  sergeant  and 
men  to  retire,  on  pain  of  disobedience  of  orders.  He  was  an¬ 
swered  sturdily  enough,  that  an  older  soldier  than  his  honor, 
might  take  the  liberty  of  judging  how  it  was  that  orders  were 
really  disobeyed  :  mat  the  men  were  unwilling  to  return  to 
Glenarm  without  their  prisoner,  whom,  Heaven  knew,  they  had 
risked  limb  and  neck  to  secure.  Finally,  that  it  was  for  his 
honor  to  calculate  the  consequences  of  sending  him  back,  empty- 
handed,  to  make  such  a  report,  as  he  should  be  obliged  to  make, 
to  their  commander-in-chief,  the  earl  of  Antrim, — the  conse¬ 
quences  to  his  honor’s  self,  as  well  as  to  the  speaker. 

A  louder  murmur  followed  this  speech. 

“  Do  you  mutiny,  scoundrels  ?”  asked  M’Donnell,  in  much 
anger. 

A  fellow,  with  a  red  bushy  head,  abruptly  replied  that  they 
were  nothing  but  true  and  loyal  clansmen.  Rut  that  they  would 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


239 


best  prove  they  were  such  by  “  having  her  tamned  Sassenach  up 
awa’  to  ta  laird’s  big  hoose.”  And  a  clatter  of  arms  ensued. 

“  Ground  arms,  this  moment  !”  cried  their  young  officer  ;  but, 
to  his  surprise  and  alarm,  the  old  sergeant  roared  out  a  contrary 
order  ;  and  while  many  voices  applauded  him,  plumply  told 
M’Donnell  that  it  was  he  himself  who  acted  a  disloyal  part ; 
that  he  should  be  made  to  feel  it  ;  and  that,  for  the  present,  the 
men  should  have  their  prisoner. 

“  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you,”  here  interposed  Evelyn.  “  I 
own  myself  your  prisoner  ;  and  wish  neither  to  accept  your 
officer’s  generosity,  nor  expose  him  to  your  hostility  for  exercis¬ 
ing  it.  M’Donnell,”  he  continued,  lowering  his  voice,  “  this 
must  not  be  ;  your  honor,  perhaps  your  life,  is  at  stake  ;  I  in¬ 
sist  on  your  doing  your  duty  as  King  James’s  officer.” 

“  Absurd  !”  cried  Edmund  ;  “  my  duty  I  will  do,  in  spite  of  the 
mutinous  and  insulting  conduct  of  these  fellows,  or  even  in  spite 
— though,  pardon  me,  Evelyn,  your  course  is  well  meant,  is  hon¬ 
orable,  and  I  value  it  accordingly.  Black  Coll  1”  he  went  on, 
addressing  one  of  the  soldiers,  his  foster-brother,  who  imme¬ 
diately  bounded  down  to  his  side.  They  spoke  a  word  together, 
in  Irish.  Black  Coll,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  clutched  his 
broadsword  firmer,  spit  ou  it,  and  twirled  it  in  his  hand,  looking 
at  once  determined  to  do  or  die  for  his  commander.  Both  then 
harangued  the  men,  in  the  same  lauguage,  and  a  division  of 
forces  took  place,  the  sergeant  remaining  at  the  head  of  but  a 
third  of  the  party.  “  Ground  arms,  now,  ye  dogs  !”  again  cried 
Edmund,  “  or  take  a  dog’s  death  !” 

The  mutineers  did  so  ;  their  countenances  showing,  however, 
something  in  final  reserve. 

“  Off  with  them  to  Glenarm  !”  he  continued  ;  and  those  who 
were  faithful  to  him,  gathering  up  the  arms  of  the  others,  all  be¬ 
gan  to  move  up  the  ascent.  But  not  before  one  of  the  victors 
ran  down  to  whisper  Black  Coll,  very  earnestly,  who  in  his  turn 
whispered  M’Donnell,  with  increased  vehemence  ;  and  when  his 
foster-brother,  after  a  moment’s  thought,  only  gave  a  “  pshaw  1” 
in  answer,  he  moved  to  rejoin  his  party,  half  in  dudgeon,  half  in 
evident  anxiety. 

The  two  friends  stood,  for  some  time,  watching  the  disappear¬ 
ance  of  the  soldiers  among  the  surrounding  heights.  At  last 
M’Donnell  turned  round  abruptly,  and — 

“  Now,  Mr.  Evelyn,”  he  said,  “  the  sooner  we  get  down  to 
the  shore,  and  along  it,  by  Glenarm,  to  some  safe  place,  the 


240 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


better.  I  lead,  sir,  as  I  know  this  wild  ground  well.  But  yon 
are  ill,  Evelyn,  or  weak  ;  you  cannot  stand,”  he  continued,  as, 
at  the  first  effort  to  follow  him,  his  old  friend  grew  pale,  and 
tottered.  “  Sit  down  a  moment — hold — allow  me  to  support 
you,”  and  he  passed  his  arms  around  Evelyn,  gently  placed  him 
in  a  sitting  posture,  and  still  held  him  up  ; — the  two  young  men 
feeling,  in  common,  strange  sensations  ;  the  one  at  again  em 
bracing,  and  the  other  at  being  again  embraced  by  the  forme, 
friend  from  whom  it  had  but  just  now  seemed  he  was  forevei 
parted. 

“  I  see  how  it  is,”  resumed  M’Donnell,  as  Evelyn  recovered  ; 
“you  have  lost  much  blood  lately.  Here  has  been  a  Papist 
pike-staff  at  your  head.  You  were  at  the  Hillsborough  affair, 
last  Thursday  ?” 

“You  guess  it,  indeed,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“Well,  you  see  how  it  went.  That  was  a  bad  beginning  for 
you  ;  but  let  us  pass  it.  It  might  have  been  our  own  fortune, 
or  the  fortune  of  brave  men  at  any  time.  Do  you  feel  better?” 

“  Much  better  ;  quite  able  to  follow  you  now.  It  was  not 
the  loss  of  blood  alone,  but  some  fatigue  and  fasting,  day  and 
night,  since  ;  with,  as  you  know,”  he  added,  smiling,  “  a  good 
runaway  and  scramble  among  these  wild  hills  and  rocks  all 
day.” 

“  And  I  the  huntsman — I  say  nothing  of  my  pack — without 
intending  it.  It  is  a  wild  place,  indeed  ;  yet  it  has  its  beauty 
too.  Come,  if  you  can  walk  and  climb  a  little  still,  follow  me, 
and  admit  as  much.  I  am  sorry  I  have  no  refreshments  to  offer 
you,”  as  they  proceeded,  “  but  I  know  a  lone  house,  lying  be¬ 
tween  us  and  the  shore,  the  only  one  in  this  entire  district,  where 
we  may  help  you  to  something.  And  now,  look  around.” 

They  had  emerged  from  the  little  retreat,  and  Evelyn  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  successive  inequalities  of  mound  and  rock, 
running  at  every  side,  while  no  one  form  resembled  another,  into 
the  most  picturesque,  fantastic,  and  peculiar  lines  and  shapes. 
Sometimes  he  caught  a  perspective  of  thin  and  shattered  rock, 
shooting  up  into  configurations  such  as  art  might  give  them,  rent 
here  and  there,  and  admitting,  through  and  through,  the  slanting 
beams  of  the  declining  day,  as  if  through  so  many  archways,  win¬ 
dows,  and  loopholes  of  a  line  of  ruinous  palaces  and  fortresses. 
Yet,  in  some  of  the  spaces  left  between  these  pilings-up  of  rock 
and  earth,  spots  of  the  tenderest  verdure,  clusters  of  the  earliest 
spring-flowers,  were  to  be  found,  looking  as  fresh  and  as  dainty 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


241 


as  if  some  hand  more  careful  than  the  rude  one  of  the  wilder¬ 
ness  had  been  about  them.  Upon  one  very  level  spread  of 
ground,  almost  entirely  inclosed  by  bulwarks,  such  as  have  been 
described,  there  was  a  covering  of  primroses,  blue-bells,  and 
daisies,  made  out  by  alternate  patches,  rather  than  intermix¬ 
tures,  of  each  kind  of  wild-flower,  so  closely  wrought,  so  smooth 
and  even,  so  brilliant,  and  showing  so  many  curious  figures,  that 
here  again  it  seemed  as  if  the  solitary  sport  of  nature  had  been 
in  rivalry  with  art,  to  produce  a  carpet  after  which  even  luxu¬ 
rious  Turkey  might  vainly  toil  in  imitation.  But  all  these  things 
were  only  the  minor,  though  more  fascinating  features  of  the 
scene  in  which  he  stood.  Before  him,  in  continued  sweep  and 
curve,  the  land  fell — nay,  was  hurled  to  the  ocean,  which,  its 
shore  yet  hidden,  now  expanded  beyond  the  last  shattered  line 
in  the  evening  sun.  Nearly  opposite  was  the  remote  Point  of 
Garron.  Behind  him  towered  the  abrupt  and  majestic  precipice, 
with — that  nothing  might  be  wanting  in  unique  beauty — the 
crescent  moon  just  faintly  peering  over  the  white  mass  of  rock. 

“  And  this,”  said  M’Donnell,  after  they  had  made  some  prog¬ 
ress,  still  over  hill  and  hollow,  towards  the  beach,  “  this  is  the 
little  Deer-Park  of  Glenarm.  It  is  so  called,  I  know  not  why, 
since  it  shows  few  features  of  a  park,  great  or  small ;  unless  the 
name  be  applied  in  compliment  to  the  few  wild  deer,  that,  time 
out  of  mind,  have  been  allowed  to  range  through  it,  rather,  in¬ 
deed,  on  account  of  the  impossibility  of  chasing  them  through  it, 
or  out  of  it,  than  with  any  feeling  of  indulgence  to  them.  It  is, 
however,  a  tremendous,  and  to  me  a  most  delightful  solitude. 
Here  might  a  man  rove  or  sit,  and — .  But  we  lose  the  evening. 
One  scramble  more,  and  we  reach  your  house  of  rest.  Adieu, 
then,  to  little  Deer-Park,  with  all  its  delights,  as  fast  as  possible.” 

The  first  shadows  of  evening  fell  around  them  as  they  con¬ 
tinued  their  often-interrupted  descent  towards  the  shore.  Both 
relapsed  into  silence  inspired  by  the  scene.  Often,  too,  forget¬ 
ful  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  they  paused  to  survey  its  ever- 
changing  features,  now  rendered  even  more  impressive  by  the 
gloom  which  began  to  wrap  their  depths  and  recesses.  Peculiar 
and  indescribable  loneliness  was  the  character  of  the  place.  The 
wild  deer  started  by  them,  to  seek  his  healthy  lair,  or  the  king 
of  birds  floated  majestically  towards  his  eyrie,  or  the  lonely  and 
melancholy  crane  was  seen  perched,  at  a  distance,  on  the  pin¬ 
nacle  of  some  seashore  rock,  only  to  give,  by  contrast,  a  stronger 
sense  of  solitude.  Nor  did  the  sounds  they  listened  to — the 

11 


242 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


heavy  booming  of  the  sea,  the  wild  screams  of  its  gulls,  the  bark 
of  the  fox  among  the  more  remote  hills,  the  hoot  of  the  owl,  or 
the  croak  of  the  raven,  from  the  precipice  behind,  unfitly  echo 
through  such  scenery.  Like  the  light  which  but  made  darkness 
visible,  these  noises  only  served  to  confirm  a  sense  of  the  reign¬ 
ing  silence. 

In  this  mood  of  excited  feeling,  a  similar  effect  was  produced 
by  the  appearance  of  the  solitary  house  M’Donnell  had  spoken  of 
Its  individuality  of  character  had  no  influence  over  the  vast  des¬ 
ert  of  hill  and  water  around  it ;  nor  could  the  assurance,  that  it 
gave  shelter  to  one  or  two  human  beings,  induce  any  cheery  ex¬ 
pectations  of  human  fellowship.  The  two  young  men  held  their 
way  to  it  in  continued  silence.  The  evening  had  crept  deeper 
over  the  sky  ;  all  sharp  effects  of  light  and  shade  had  disap¬ 
peared  from  the  bulwark  precipice  behind,  and  from  the  heaps 
of  natural  ruin  it  overhung.  Every  thing  looked  monotonously 
browm  and  undefined  ;  amongst  the  rest,  the  hut  they  were  ap¬ 
proaching,  of  which  the  thatch,  alternately  bleached,  blackened, 
or  patched  with  dark  green,  could  scarce  be  distinguished  from 
the  similarly-tinted  crags  with  which  it  grouped.  Our  friends 
gained  the  rock-strewn  platform  before  it :  all  was  silent  within  ; 
no  lights  appeared  through  the  windows.  They  stood  stationary 
an  instant,  both  experiencing  feelings  as  agitating  as  they  were 
novel  and  unaccountable.  At  last  M’Donnell  entered  the  black, 
wide-open  doorway,  and  Evelyn  followed  him  closely.  The  house 
contained  but  two  large  apartments,  divided  by  the  passage  run¬ 
ning  straight  from  the  door,  along  which  they  stepped.  Other 
doors  on  either  hand  opened  into  these  rooms.  M’Donnell 
stood  at  one,  Evelyn  at  the  other  :  after  a  moment’s  survey, 
they  changed  places.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  in  either  of  the 
apartments,  except  large  dark  masses,  that,  in  the  deep  shade  of 
the  corners,  could  not  be  at  once  analyzed,  and  no  living  creature 
appeared.  They  tried  to  exchange  a  glance  across  the  passage, 
and  hastily  left  the  house. 

Abroad,  they  again  stopped. 

“  I  do  not  understand  why  my  sensations  should  be  as  they 
are,”  M’Donnell  said  ;  “  but,  to  me,  there  has  been  something 
heart-chilling — something  I  never  before  experienced,  in  finding 
that  house  so  unexpectedly  deserted.” 

“  Our  sensations  are  common,  then,”  said  Evelyn  ;  “  I  did  not 
like  to  remain  in  it.” 

“  But  a  few  weeks  ago  it  was  inhabited  by  a  man  to  whom 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


243 


Lord  Antrim  had  given  nominal  care  of  the  wild  deer  of  the 
place,  and  by  his  numerous  family  :  what  can  have  become  of 
them  all  ?  Let  us  conquer  this  childish  nervousness,  and  enter 
the  house  again  ;  perhaps  some  one  yet  is  to  be  found  in  It ; 
either  it?  old  or  some  new  inhabitants.  You  noticed  the  dark 
shapes  in  the  corners  ?” 

“  I  did — let  us  in,”  answered  Evelyn. 

They  recrossed  the  threshold,  and  stepped  lightly  along  the 
short  passage.  They  separately  entered  the  two  rooms,  and,  a 
moment  after,  again  confronted  each  other  in  the  passage,  more 
agitated  than  before. 

“Hush!”  said  M’Donnell,  in  a  whisper,  “all  around  this 
room,”  pointing  into  the  doorway  he  had  issued  from,  “  armed 
men  are  sleeping.” 

“  And  in  this  also !”  said  Evelyn.  “  Do  you  know  who  they 
are  ?” 

“  No  ;  how  could  I  know  !” 

“  But  I  do — speak  lower — tread  softly — let  us  get  out,  and  I 
will  explain.” 

They  accordingly  left  the  hut  a  second  time,  and  walked  rap¬ 
idly  away*  from  it. 

“  These  men,”  he  resumed,  “  are  part  of  a  Rapparee  army 
from  the  south,  who,  joined  to  their  whole  body,  have  lately  been 
routed  from  my  house,  after  they  had  possessed  it  for  some  days, 
plundered,  and  finally  set  fire  to  it.  They  now,  I  suppose,  await 
here  a  reunion  with  their  scattered  party.  Extreme  fatigue,  as¬ 
sisted  perhaps  by  the  desolate  security  of  the  place,  has  sunk 
them  in  the  deepest  sleep.  But  a  ray  of  twilight,  such  as  it  is, 
streaming  down  from  the  broken  roof,  showed  me  the  gigantic 
limbs  of  a  man,  which,  though  his  dark  cloak  envelops  his  face 
and  the  rest  of  his  person,  can  belong  to  no  other  than  the  great 
Rapparee  general,  Galloping  Hogan.  While,  by  his  side,  I  dis¬ 
tinguished  the  features,  simpering  even  in  sleep,  of  our  old  ac¬ 
quaintance,  the  Whisperer.  Startled  as  I  was  at  this  discovery, 
I  ventured  another  glance  around  in  quest  of  a  person,  who,  al¬ 
beit  my  near  relative,  I  expected  to  find  in  their  company  ;  I 
mean  my  Uncle  Jeremiah.  But  I  could  see  no  form  that  corre¬ 
sponds  to  his.  Did  you  happen  to  light  on  such  a  one  in  the 
other  room  ?” 

“  No,”  replied  M’Donnell  ;  “  but  your  whole  account  sur¬ 
prises  me.  These  fellows  have  plundered  and  burnt  your  house, 
you  say  ?” 


244 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  They  have  left  me,  for  the  present,  penniless. 

“  Where  were  you  when  it  happened — with  your  corps  T9 

"No;  nor  did  I  take  a  sword  in  my  hand,  until  returning  to 
the  house  of  my  birth,  I  found  it  held  by  these  men  in  the  name 
of  King  James,  and  at  last  saw  it  consumed  to  ashes  by  their 
hands.” 

“  Ha !  small  wonder  that  you  then  acted  like  an  outraged 
man.  But,  Evelyn,  one  discrimination  you  must  make.  King 
James  no  more  authorizes  the  violence  of  these  scoundrels,  than 
king — the  Prince  of  Orange  does.  On  the  contrary,  his  Irish 
justices  are  just  now  about  to  take  a  special  circuit  to  try  and 
put  them  down.  And  no  wonder  ;  for  these  roving  Rapparees 
prey  on  friends  as  well  as  foes,  whenever  it  suits  their  conven¬ 
ience  ;  attacking  and  plundering  the  suttlers  and  other  people 
belonging  to  our  camps  ;  and  even  besieging  and  storming  the 
houses  and  castles  of  Roman  Catholic  gentlemen.” 

"I  am  glad,  at  all  events,  that  such  men  are  not  recognized 
by  the  more  legitimate  spirit  of  your  party,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  My  party,  sir,”  replied  young  M’Donnell,  resentful  of  the 
tone  in  which  these  words  had  been  spoken,  “  are,  doubtless, 
thankful  to  you  for  your  good  opinion.  But,  now  we  at  last 
gain  the  shore,  it  behooves  us  to  make  as  much  speed  as  we  can 
out  of  this  place  ;  there  are  reasons  why  we  should  be  speedy, 
and  prudent,  too.  Do  you  feel  strong  enough  for  a  last  scram¬ 
ble,  over  rock  and  stone,  by  the  seaside  ?” 

Evelyn  answering  in  the  affirmative,  they  moved  on,  in  resumed 
silence. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Nearly  on  a  level  with  the  sea,  our  friends  continued  their 
course  along  a  natural  causeway  of  soft  white  stones,  made  with 
much  uniformity  by  the  tide,  which,  from  time  to  time,  cast  up 
the  material  in  its  flow,  and  confirmed  it  in  a  certain  shape  at 
its  ebb.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s  walk,  this  footing  failed, 
and  they  found  the  remainder  of  the  beach,  as  far  as  they  pro¬ 
ceeded,  heaped  with  round,  black  rocks,  great  and  small,  from 
one  to  another  of  which  they  were  obliged  to  step,  or  else  clam¬ 
ber  over  or  round  the  bases  of  some,  that,  from  their  bulk, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


245 


proved  otherwise  impassable.  Here  and  there,  among  an  un¬ 
usual  confusion  of  these  mountain  fragments,  they  encountered  a 
rock  of  gigantic  magnitude,  leaning  angle-ways  against  a  sec¬ 
ond,  that  similarly  inclined  to  it,  both  thus  forming  a  rude  arch¬ 
way,  through  which  it  seemed  foolhardy  to  pass,  but  which 
afforded,  nevertheless,  the  only  outlet  for  pursuing  their  way. 

All  this  time,  the  evening  grew  darker  and  darker,  yet  not 
unusually  so.  Though  threatening  towards  the  decline  of  day, 
the  sunset  had  been  almost  cloudless  ;  and  the  stars  now  began 
to  peep  out  through  a  clear,  cold  sky.  But  the  breeze  came  from 
the  ocean  fresher  than  was  pleasant ;  assisting  with  its  impetus, 
as  M’Donnell  soon  perceived,  a  rapid  and  furious  tide. 

“We  must  hasten,”  he  said,  after  glancing  sharply  along  the 
savage  beach,  “  or  this  tide  may  prove  more  troublesome  to  us 
than  Rapparee  or  Red-shank.’’ 

They  accordingly  quickened  their  steps,  over  stone  and  rock, 
till  they  arrived  at  the  edge  of  a  little  inlet,  in  which  the  tide 
was  breaking,  tumbling,  and  roaring  with  a  heavy  surf. 

“  Fairly  baffled,  by  St.  Senanus !”  cried  M’Donnell,  in  tones 
of  dismay. 

“  And  what  are  we  to  do  ?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“  Nothing  for  it  but  to  climb  up  as  fast  as  we  can.  You  see 
it  is  impossible  to  pass  yon  pile  of  rocks  that  meets  the  hill-side 
more  inland  ;  and  in  ten  minutes  the  stones  we  stand  on  will  be 
many  feet  under  water.  Follow  me  ;  though,  in  truth,  I  know 
not  how  or  where  to  lead,  having  never  entered  or  left  this  un¬ 
lucky  place  except  by  the  beach  at  low  tide,  or  by  the  hill-path, 
in  the  direction  we  have  come  from,  and  by  which,  as  I  judge, 
you  gained  the  spot  where  I  first  found  you.  Yet,  courage  1  I 
have  heard  of  an  old  track  from  the  brow  of  the  precipice,  at 
the  village  side,  winding  all  through  the  successive  sweeps  be¬ 
tween  us  and  it.  If  we  can  find  that,  it  will  serve.  At  all 
events,  we  must  now  change  our  place.” 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way,  and  Evelyn  followed,  up  the  side 
of  a  steep  hill,  that  took  its  rise  about  thirty  yards  from  the 
beach  ;  both  hastening  away  from  a  great  swell  of  tide,  which, 
before  they  moved,  had  broken  over  their  feet.  Evelyn,  quite 
unused  to  such  exercise,  found  the  ascent  he  was  engaged  in 
very  severe,  to  say  nothing  of  its  peril.  The  hill  produced  but 
a  meagre  vegetation,  and  was  composed,  on  the  surface  at 
least,  of  coarse,  loose  earth  and  unbedded  stones,  which  gave 
little  assurance  either  to  hand  or  foot.  The  wavy  kind  of  fur- 


246 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


rows  into  which  it  had — Heaven  knows  how — become  broken, 
afforded,  as  he  crept  upward  in  an  oblique  direction,  the  best 
help.  But  even  this  surface  sometimes  disappeared,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  vein  of  bare,  mouldering  ground — at  the  least  safe 
places  too — across  which  Evelyn  felt  both  difficulty  and  alarm 
in  endeavoring  to  pick  his  steps.  M’Donnell  pressed  on,  how¬ 
ever,  with  little  seeming  toil  or  apprehension,  some  distance  be¬ 
fore  his  companion.  One  way  or  another,  the  effort  was  perse¬ 
vered  in  by  Evelyn  ;  until,  after  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour’s  uninterrupted  climbing,  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  cry  out 
for  a  rest ;  and,  clinging  to  the  soil  with  one  hand,  sank,  com¬ 
pletely  exhausted,  in  a  sitting  posture.  Thus  situated,  his  face 
was,  for  the  first  time  since  their  ascent,  turned  downward  to  the 
beach.  When  he  measured,  with  one  hasty  glance,  the  great 
height  he  now  found  himself  elevated  from  it,  and,  with  another, 
spanned  the  continued  towering  of  steeper  hills  above  him — the 
barrier  precipice  frowning  over  all ;  when  he  felt  his  position  so 
insecure,  that  the  slipping  of  almost  a  handful  of  clay  might 
have  been  enough  to  whelm  him  among  the  rocks,  or  into  the 
boiling  ocean  below  ;  and  while  his  strength  seemed  altogether 
unable  to  dare  the  incalculable  strain  yet  necessary  to  free  him, 
if  he  could  be  freed,  from  present  danger — the  blood  chilled  at 
his  heart,  and  he  felt  such  a  shuddering  for  life  as,  perhaps,  none 
can  imagine,  save  those  who,  like  him,  have,  for  the  first  time, 
stood  in  a  similar  situation. 

But  after  a  good  rest,  and  many  assurances  from  M’Donnell 
that  he  thought  they  should  soon  come  to  the  right  path,  Eve¬ 
lyn  found  his  novel  misgivings  gradually  give  way,  and  his 
strength  return.  Again  he  followed  his  guide  over  ground  some¬ 
what  less  difficult,  wondering  at  the  weakness  of  his  recent  ap¬ 
prehensions.  Evening  now  began  to  yield  to  positive  night.  The 
hill-side  grew  indistinct,  and  increased  caution  in  placing  their 
steps  became  necessary.  As  they  advanced  (Evelyn  knew  not 
whither,  for  he  ventured  no  further  looks  up  or  down),  this  ne¬ 
cessity  increased.  Once  again  the  soil  proved  smooth  and 
loose,  and  the  hill,  the  second  in  elevation  they  had  climbed,  al¬ 
most  perpendicular.  But  up  they  still  pulled  ;  Evelyn  ashamed 
to  request  another  pause,  and,  indeed,  from  the  nature  of  the 
ground,  afraid  also.  Still  up,  without  any  promise  of  an  end  to 
their  toil ;  and,  after  all  his  resolves  and  efforts  to  the  contrary, 
Evelyn  again  sank  upon  a  ledge  of  rock,  almost  reckless 
whether  or  no  it  remained  firm  under  him. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


247 


“  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  proceed  further,  to-night, 
M ’Donnell,”  he  said,  as  his  friend,  retracing  the  way  he  had 
been  in  advance,  came  to  join  him. 

“Good  heart!  good  heart!”  answered  M’Donnell,  cheerily; 
“  only  try  once  more,  and  all  will  be  over.  I  have  found  the 
path.  At  about  twenty  yards  on,  it  winds  zigzag  over  the  bosom 
of  yon  other  dip  of  hill,  which  we  have  nearly  gained.  And 
see,  a  little  on  still,  and  a  little  upwards,  where  the  precipice, 
gradually  encroached  on  by  that  hill,  at  length  meets  its  top — 
there  is  our  firm  and  level  ground.” 

This  little  further-on-and-upward  proved,  to  Evelyn’s  view, 
immeasurably  high  and  distant.  He  did  not,  however,  refuse, 
after  a  short  breathiug-time,  the  last  effort  he  was  called  on  to 
make  ;  and  once  more  young  M’Donnell  led  the  way. 

“  Here  it  is  I”  he  resumed,  after  another  long  and  strong  pull; 
“  we  are  now  on  the  path.  And  see — yon’s  an  inclosure  of  some 
kind — a  park  wall,  I  think — so,  we  must  be  nearer  to  release 
and  relief  than  we  had  reckoned.  It  is  a  wall — come  on  !” 

But  the  young  mountaineer,  experienced  as  he  generally 
was  in  such  kind  of  scenery,  now  proved  altogether  at  fault. 
He  ascended  no  regular,  or  even  irregular  path,  formed  by  man’s 
foot,  but  a  wild  sheep-track,  worn  by  flocks  of  those  animals, 
just  as  wild  as  it,  and,  in  their  wanderings  amongst  the  hills, 
nearly  as  adventurous  and  nimble  as  goats.  Neither  did  he  see 
a  park  wall,  nor  any  other  wall  raised  by  man’s  hands  ;  but  a 
natural  wall  of  rock,  which  often  shoots  from  the  summits  to  the 
bases  of  a  range  of  basalt  hills,  completely  intersecting  them  ; 
and  in  many  cases  having  a  ditch  or  a  dyke  at  one  or  both  sides, 
accompanying  it  through  its  whole  course,  and  therefore  partly 
conferring  its  present  name  of  whyndyke.  He  is  not  charged, 
indeed,  with  being  ignorant  of  that  present  name,  as  applied  to 
the  object  he  then  looked  upon,  inasmuch  as  its  invention  and 
use  are  of  a  very  recent  date.  But  had  not  his  eye  been  cheated 
of  its  usual  power  of  determining  proportions,  as  well  by  the 
tremendous  scale  of  the  only  common  objects  around,  as  by  the 
darkness,  and,  perhaps,  his  own  impatience,  it  should  have  in¬ 
formed  him  that  what  he  took  for  a  low  park  wall,  of  about 
five  feet  high,  was,  in  fact,  fifteen  feet  high,  at  the  point  in  which 
he  saw  it. 

Full  of  his  own  idea,  however,  young  M’Donnell  scrambled 
on  ;  the  increasing  steepness  and  looseness  of  the  hill  over  which 
he  stepped  scarce  baffling  his  foot  or  checking  his  ardor. 


248 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


1  Here  it  is,  indeed!”  lie  again  said,  now  within  a  few  yards 
of  tne  dyke.  “  A  good  step  across,  and  a  catch  at  the  top  of 
the  wall,  is  all  we  want — over,  then  !” 

He  half-bounded,  half-stepped  across,  and,  as  he  had  purposed, 
vainly  strove  to  catch  at  the  top  of  the  natural  barrier.  His 
hand,  not  reaching  half-way,  grasped  a  slight  projection  of  stone, 
just  as  his  legs,  overstrained,  and  in  an  untenable  position,  rest¬ 
ed,  one  on  the  far  and  slippery  edge  of  the  dyke,  the  other  on 
the  more  solid,  though  still  dangerous  ground  he  had  just  aban¬ 
doned.  Thus  situated  Evelyn  found  him,  as,  in  much  alarm,  he 
gained  his  side.  He  was  more  alarmed  when,  even  in  the  im¬ 
perfect  light,  he  saw  M’Donnell’s  jaw  drop,  and  his  face  grow 
ashy  pale.  Nor  did  the  words  he  uttered,  when  Evelyn  offered 
his  hand,  serve  to  alleviate  apprehension. 

“  Touch  me  not !”  he  cried,  or  rather  screamed — “  touch  me 
not,  if  you  would  not  share  my  fate  !  I  am  lost  forever ! 
The  earth  crumbles  from  under  my  feet — the  stone  slips  from 
my  hand — and  beneath  me  is  au  uninterrupted  yawn  of  hun¬ 
dreds  of  feet,  to  the  beach !  Stand  back,  Evelyn — look  not 
even  down — it  will  overpower  you.  But,  farewell  ! — and  Eva, 
my  sister  !” 

“  Your  hand  !  your  hand  !”  interrupted  Evelyn !  “  this  ob¬ 
stinacy  is  madness — come,  I  have  it  now.  Keep  yourself  col¬ 
lected.  Do  not  pull  me,  nor  spring  round.  This  near  foot  is 
firm  enough — rest  on  it,  and  plant  the  other  here,  too,  while  I 
bear  against  your  weight.  I  am  pretty  safe  ;  a  furze-root  gives 
me  a  grasp  on  the  hill.  Now — slowly  !” 

“  I  shall  but  drag  you  with  me  1”  cried  Edmund,  as  he  strove 
to  follow  these  orders,  given  by  a  man  who  rose  in  constancy  of 
spirit  with  real  occasion.  “We  shall  but  perish  together  1” 

“  Fear  not  ;  or  if  so,  let  it  be  so  !”  cried  Evelyn.  “  Turn — 
turn — now — your  foot  on  yonder  little  rise.  Bravo,  M’Donnell, 
you  are  safe  !” 

They  embraced  each  other,  both  sinking  on  the  most  secure 
spot  the  hill-side  afforded. 

“  And  now,  Evelyn,”  said  M’Donnell,  after  he  had  somewhat 
regained  his  breath  and  self-possession,  “  you,  I  fear,  must  take 
the  lead  in  this  adventure.” 

“  If  you  allow  me  to  prescribe  our  movements,”  answered 
his  companion,  “  I  would  advise,  then,  after  retracing  our 
steps  along  this  last  wild  track,  to  gain  some  secure,  level 
ground,  where  we  may  rest  for  the  night,  and  await  the  cheer- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


249 


fill  aid  of  day  in  freeing  ourselves  from  this  fastness  of  hill  and 
crag.” 

“  Lead  on,  at  all  events,  to  such  a  resting-place  ;  here  is  no 
sure  footing.  We  shall  then  talk  more  on  the  subject.  But  first, 
Evelyn — dear  Evelyn  1”  he  added,  with  all  the  old  cordiality  of 
manner,  “  accept  my  thanks  for  the  part  you  have  just  acted. 
I  know  your  nature  now  for  the  first  time — thanks  !  thanks !” 

“  I  will  not  have  thanks  from  you,  dear  M’Donnell,”  said 
Evelyn. 

“  A  renewal  of  friendship,  then,  soldier-foes  as  we  are.  Will 
that  serve  ?” — taking  his  hand. 

“  That  will  serve,”  answered  his  reinstated  friend,  his  voice 
broken,  as  they  exchanged  a  warm  pressure. 

Downward  they  immediately  moved,  Evelyn  leading  the  way, 
along  the  sheep-track  they  had  last  followed,  and  which  had  so 
nearly  led  them  to  their  ruin.  Arrived  at  the  point  where  they 
first  struck  into  it,  Evelyn  looked  attentively  around  him  ;  and 
pointing  to  a  wide  gully,  or  watercourse,  between  two  hills,  very 
precipitous,  and  running  up  so  high  as  to  be  almost  lost  in  the 
darkness,  challenged  M’Donnell  to  scale  it. 

“  Wherever  may  be  its  origin  above,”  he  said,  “there,  ai  all 
events,  must  we  find  the  level  ground  which  concentrates  the 
waters  that,  during  heavy  rains,  have  formed  it.  The  struggle 
upward  will  prove  less  toilsome,  and,  though  the  gully  is  abrupt, 
less  daugerous  than  any  we  have  yet  made,  on  account  of  the  sharp 
projecting  rocks  and  stones  that  line  its  sides.  Shall  we  venture  ?” 

“  Yes  !  yes  !  But,  as  I  know  more  of  these  places  than  you 
do,  with  this  precaution.  Let  neither  of  us  look  downward,  dur¬ 
ing  our  progress,  nor,  if  possible,  speak  a  word  to  each  other. 
There  will  be  little  breath  to  spare  ;  neither  let  us  pause  a 
moment.  Lead  on  ;  attend  to  yourself,  and  never  mind  me  To 
prepare,  I  doff  my  military  coat.” 

Evelyn  began  to  ascend.  As  he  anticipated,  the  jutting  rocks 
and  stones  at  first  greatly  assisted  his  efforts.  But  when  much 
time  had  elapsed,  and  much  way  been  made,  and  still,  as  he 
looked  up,  no  termination  appeared  to  the  gully,  this  momentary 
sense  of  relief  was  lost  in  a  return  of  misgiving,  impatience,  and 
the  greatest  weakness  he  had  yet  felt.  Upward  he  pulled,  how¬ 
ever — up  !  up ! — perspiration  teeming  from  every  pore  ;  and  his 
head  getting  dizzy,  as,  at  every  step,  the  broken  lines  of  the  sav¬ 
age  hills,  around  and  above  him,  blurred  and  ran  into  each 
other.  The  bed  of  the  watercourse  soon  proved  less  firm,  too, 

11* 


250 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


than  at  the  outset  he  had  found  it ;  large  stones  slipped  from 
under  his  feet,  and  rattled  and  thundered  downward.  This  neces¬ 
sarily  increased  his  agitation,  both  on  his  own  account  and  that 
of  M’Donnell.  At  every  fragment  which  leaped  away,  his  own 
or  his  friend’s  death  seemed  an  inevitable  result.  Often  he 
wished  to  stop,  turn,  ana  look  behind,  to  assure  himself  of  that 
friend’s  situation.  But  he  dared  not.  Towards  the  edge  of  the 
heights  over  him,  his  trained  eye  alone  turned,  but  there  found 
no  relief.  The  ever-varying  forms  of  the  dark  hills,  backed  by 
the  sky,  perplexed  and  almost  confounded  him. 

More  than  once  he  thought  some  living  shapes  started  to  the 
outline  of  a  height  to  his  left,  and  then  seemed  to  mingle  with 
the  darkness  :  at  last  he  felt  really  assured  that  a  human  being 
stood  against  the  dim  blue  sky,  in  the  same  direction.  He 
looked  again,  scarce  pausing  in  his  ascent.  Instead  of  such  a 
figure,  there  appeared  a  four-footed  form,  as  if  engaged  in  watch¬ 
ing  his  motions.  It  stirred  here  and  there,  still  inclining  its 
head  ;  and  Evelyn,  taken  by  surprise,  allowed  himself  to  yield  to 
horrid  associations,  which  froze  his  blood,  and  made  his  hair  to 
bristle,  while  the  thing  seemed  to  swell  to  a  huge  size,  and  as¬ 
sume  monstrous  particularities  of  appearance.  At  this  instant, 
another  piece  of  rock  plunged  downward  ;  and  presently  he 
heard  a  scream  ;  while,  at  the  same  instant,  the  wild  sheep  that 
had  so  much  worried  his  spirits  ran  off,  and  were  succeeded  by  a 
flock  of  others,  who  all  peeped  down  10  reconnoitre  the  strange 
visitant  of  their  solitude,  and  then  scampered  after  their  leader, — 
their  identity  at  last  evident  to  the  clamberer,  whose  presence  of 
mind  somewhat  rallied,  in  consequence,  although  the  cry  he  had 
heard  curdled  the  blood  at  his  heart.  It  was,  he  concluded,  the 
last  breath  of  Edmund  M’Donnell. 

But  self-preservation  did  not  allow  him  to  dwell  on  the  sicken¬ 
ing  thought.  The  termination  of  the  gully  at  last  appearing, 
the  same  powerful  stimulus  lent  him  a  final  effort,  and  he  soon 
stood,  quite  free  of  it,  on  a  little  space  of  level  land.  Hopelessly 
did  his  eye  then  dart  down  the  abyss  he  had  cleared — no  living 
thing  appeared  in  motion  after  him.  He  cast  himself  on  the 
damp  soil  in  agony  and  despair.  He  rushed  again  to  the  edge 
of  the  watercourse,  and  now  something  white  stirred,  a  good  dis¬ 
tance  beneath.  He  riveted  his  glance,  and  became  assured  he 
saw  a  moving  object,  coming  towards  him.  It  grew  larger  and 
more  distinct ;  and  presently,  M’Donnell’s  voice  was  heard, 
shouting,  “  Evelyn  I  Evelyn  1” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


251 


“  Here  !  here  I  safe,  and  awaiting  you  !”  he  shouted,  ia 
reply. 

“  Thank  God  1”  returned  M’Donnell. 

In  about  five  minutes,  Edmund  gained  the  edge  of  the  level 
space,  in  his  white  undress,  and  dreadfully  exhausted.  Evelyn 
grasped  his  arm,  and  pulled  him  to  his  side. 

“Why  did  you  cry  out  ?”  gasped  Edmund. 

“  It  was  not  I,”  replied  his  friend,  “  but,  Edmund,  I  fea'^ed 
it  was  you.” 

“  I  did  not  utter  a  sound  till  I  approached  you.  What  voice 
could  it  be  ?” 

“  I  know  not  ;  its  tone  was  very  horrible.” 

“  It  was  terrific.  From  all  evil  things  of  this  wild,  good 
Heaven  deliver  us  1”  said  Edmund,  piously  crossing  himself. 

“  Amen !”  answered  his  companion,  his  heart  not  free  from 
superstitious  weakness. 

There  was  a  mocking  laugh  at  some  distance. 

“  Amen  !”  echoed  a  voice. 

The  young  men  stared  at  each  other,  in  dismay  and  silence, 
which  was  at  length  broken  by  Evelyn. 

“  Come,”  he  whispered,  “  let  us  lie  down  on  this  platform, 
and,  trusting  ourselves  to  God,  attend  the  rising  of  a  more 
friendly  morrow.” 

“  It  is  impossible,  Evelyn,”  answered  M’Donnell,  in  the  same 
tone  ;  “we  dare  spend  no  more  time  here  than  will  serve  to 
recruit  our  strength  ;  and,  though  I  did  not  intend  it,  I  must 
now  tell  you  why.  Draw  nearer,”  he  continued,  lowering  his 
voice  still  more.  “  You  saw  Black  Coll  hold  some  secret  com¬ 
munication  with  me,  as  he  retired  with  my  party  to-day  ?  It 
was  to  warn  me  that  he  overheard  the  sergeant  and  his  friends 
pledge  each  other  to  obtain  a  sufficient  number  of  men  at  Glenarm 
to  intercept  us  both  on  our  way,  or  pursue  us,  as  the  case  might  be. 
I  make  little  doubt,  but  the  moment  he  reached  Antrim  Castle  be 
was  freed  from  the  custody  of  my  few  faithful  fellows.  Nor — so 
deadly  is  the  present  spirit  of  political  hatred  on  both  sides — 
can  I  hesitate  to  believe,  that  he  further  obtained  the  help  he 
spoke  of,  and  has  since  been  looking  out  for  us.  This  moment, 
perhaps,  we  are  watched  by  his  spies.  At  least,  I  am  inclined, 
on  reflection,  to  attribute  to  one  of  them  the  cry  and  sounds  we 
have  just  heard.  Now,  the  case  is  this.  Should  we  wait  until 
morning  to  pass  by  Glenarm,  there  is  no  chance  for  us  ;  in  the 
darkness  of  this  night,  our  retreat  to  Glenarriff  is  possible,  and 


252 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


barely  possible.  Yet,  perhaps,  our  wandering  adventure  hew 
has  been  all  for  the  better  ;  perhaps  our  non-appearance,  further 
on  our  route,  at  the  time  we  might  naturally  have  been  expected, 
has,  until  morning,  thrown  them  off  their  guard.  At  all  events, 
should  we,  before  daybreak,  succeed  in  getting  among  my  own 
immediate  people,  I  shall  not  then  value  even  the  hostility  of  my 
titled  cousin  himself.  And  there  is  more  to  urge  you.  Black 
Coll  will  not  fail  to  report,  at  the  Strip  of  Bnrne,  our  situation 
and  peril,  when  he  parted  from  us  ;  help  and  friends  will  be  on 
the  road  between  Glenarm  and  the  caves  of  Cushindoll  ;  further, 
towards  proud  Antrim’s  castle  they  cannot  advance.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  one  or  two  friends  have  already  been  dispatched  in 
search  of  us,  and  now  wander,  like  ourselves,  among  these  very 
mountains — friends  that  might  advise  us  of  the  best  course  to  be 
taken,  but  friends  that  we  cannot  see.” 

“Friends  that  you  cannot  see  !”  echoed  the  invisible  listener. 

“  I  think  I  know  the  voice,”  said  M’Donnell,  starting.  “  Come 
forward,  Onagh.” 

“  Onagh  it  is,”  the  poor  girl  answered,  appearing  from  a  high 
embankment  ;  “  and  reason  you  have  to  know  her  voice.” 

“  Was  it  you  that  screamed  out,  just  now,  Onagh  ?”  Edmund 
continued. 

“  And  why  shouldn’t  I,”  she  answered,  “  when  I  saw  the  both 
o’  you  so  far  below  in  the  darkness,  creeping  about  like  the  ship 
at  a  distance,  when  the  evening  is  black  and  stormy,  and  I  stand 
at  my  dour  to  sign  the  cross  on  the  waves  and  wind  for  it  ?” 

“  But,  Onagh,  why  are  you  so  far  away  from  your  own  house, 
to-night  ?” 

“  For  your  sake,  Edmund  M’Donnell,”  she  answered  ;  “  an’ 
at  the  biddin’  o’  your  own  people.  I  am  sent  to  clear  your  road 
o’  some  that  are  waitin’  to  give  you  no  welcome  on  it  ;  an’  I’m 
to  walk  before  you,  as  others  once  walked  before  me,  to  the 
threshold  o’  my  house,  by  the  bay-side.” 

“  Who  sent  you  ?”  asked  M’Donnell,  apprehending  something 
either  from  the  sincerity  or  consistency  of  Onagh. 

“  One  that  wore  that  ring  when  she  spoke  to  me,”  Onagh  re¬ 
plied,  giving  one  ;  “  and  that  wore  another,  too,”  glancing  at 
Evelyn,  “  that  is  newly  come  on  her  finger.  Have  no  fears  o’ 
me,  Edmund  M’Donnell.  The  turn  I  am  here  to  do  you,  I  never 
would  refuse  to  do.  Though  there  is  a  different  cause  that  I 
would  cross  you  in,  if  it  were  by  opening  an  early  grave  at  your 
feet.  But  now,  fear  nothing.”  M’Donnell,  inattentive  to  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


253 


latter  part  of  her  speech,  only  looked  on  the  ring,  which  he  knew 
to  be  his  sister’s.  As  he  held  silence  a  moment,  Evelyn  asked 
in  a  low  tone  of  Onagh  : 

“  She  yet  wears  my  ring  1” 

“  She  does  ;  and  will  never  part  it,  Sassenach.” 

“  And  does  she  yet  love  him  who  put  it  on  her  finger?” 

As  well  as  he  loves  her.” 

“Has  she  told  you  as  much  ?” 

“  She  told  me  nothing  ;  no  one  ever  speaks  their  heart  to 
Onagh.  Still,  she  loves  you.” 

“I  am  determined  to  be  guided  by  this  poor  woman,”  here  in¬ 
terposed  M’Donnell  ;  “  she  gives  me  a  true  token,  Evelyn.  It  must 
also  be  evident  to  you  that  we  can  soon  wholly  escape  from  this 
place,  by  following  her  over  the  path  she  has  so  far  descended.” 

Evelyn  agreed  to  give  up  his  project  of  spending  the  remainder 
of  the  night  among  the  hills.  The  young  men  and  their  guide 
moved  onward  ;  and  after  half  an  hour’s  further  toiling,  the 
friends  were  led  by  Onagh  to  the  superior  height,  from  which 
the  precipice  took  its  range,  and,  over  it,  into  an  open  level 
country,  by  the  very  path  Edmund  had  spoken  of,  and  which  he 
had  so  long  sought  for  in  vain. 

During  a  last  rest,  here,  Onagh  produced  some  refreshments, 
which,  though  coarse,  were  well  relished  by  the  adventurers,  and 
lent  them  a  little  fresh  strength  to  pursue  their  still  dangerous 
way.  Turning  to  the  right,  every  step  now  led  downward,  by 
easy  descents,  to  the  village  of  Glenarm  ;  and  they  were  on  the 
alert  to  see  if  their  path  remained  clear.  They  gained,  however, 
the  brow  of  the  last  descent  to  the  bay  without  any  inteurup- 
tion,  and  were  about  to  venture  forward,  when  Onagh  inter¬ 
rupted  them. 

“  Let  me  first  go  down,”  she  said,  “  and  make  ye  sure,  and 
not  sorry.  I  will  run  close  by  the  bay,  not  passing  near  the 
houses,  the  same  road  you  must  follow  me.  If  I  come  back  a 
step,  all  is  safe  ;  if  I  stay  away,  remain  ye  where  ye  are.” 

She  hurried  from  them  ;  and  they  soon  recognized  her  figure, 
rapidly  moving  by  the  edge  of  the  sea,  far  below.  She  pro¬ 
ceeded  a  good  way  along  the  strand,  till  she  met  the  road 
that,  winding  with  the  bay,  turned  off  towards  Glenarriff , 
there  they  could  indistinctly  observe  her  pause,  and,  standing 
on  a  high  point,  look  around  her.  At  last  she  waved  her  arms 
in  the  direction  they  were,  and  got  into  motion,  returning  to¬ 
wards  them.  The  friends  instantly  ran  to  meet  her  ;  and  eo 


254 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


countering  Onagh  on  the  wet  strand,  about  the  middle  of  the 
little  bay,  all  were  soon  safe  on  the  Glenarriff  road. 

But  as  the  friends  began  to  congratulate  each  other,  a  Red¬ 
shank,  armed  with  a  carbine,  started  from  behind  a  beetling 
rock,  stood  before  them  on  the  road,  and  gave  his  challenge. 

“  Friends  to  King  James  l”  answered  M’Donnell.  “  Good¬ 
night,  and  speed  you  l” 

“  Stand  !”  continued  the  soldier,  presenting  his  piece.  M’Don- 
nell  rushed  on  him  ;  they  closed  ;  the  man’s  piece  went  off  harm¬ 
lessly  ;  Edmund  wrested  it  from  him,  clubbed  it,  and  dealt  him 
a  blow  that  stretched  him  at  his  feet.  Other  shots  were  pres¬ 
ently  heard  towards  the  village,  and  a  gun  was  fired  from  the 
castle. 

“  Now,”  said  Onagh,  “  nothing  but  the  speed  o’  the  red  deer 
can  save  ye  and  she  instantly  set  a  good  example  of  flight. 

“  The  poor  woman  speaks  true,”  exclaimed  Edmund  ;  “  man 
and  horse  will  be  on  our  track  in  an  instant.  Hark  I  do  you 
not  already  hear  a  rush  by  the  rough  road  near  the  strand  ?  But 
I  am  not  hopeless  yet ;  there  lies  the  last  sentinel  between  me 
and  home  ;  the  next  man  we  meet  will  be  a  friend — at  least  I 
thiuk  and  pray  so.  Let  us  decide  it.” 

Both  followed  Onagh,  at  the  utmost  stretch  of  their  limbs  and 
muscles.  They  were  near  the  summit  of  the  first  inequality  on 
their  road  ;  they  soon  gained  it  ;  and  with  redoubled  velocity, 
shot  down  its  opposite  descent. 

“  I  think  you  were  mistaken,”  said  Evelyn,  when  they  faced 
another  disheartening  hill  ;  “  no  sounds  of  pursuit  come  through 
the  night.” 

“  It  may  be  so  ;  but  on  1”  answered  Edmund. 

As,  spent  and  staggering,  they  approached  the  second  high 
point  of  the  way,  the  figure  of  a  man  was  seen  standing  motion¬ 
less  upon  it. 

“  Look  !”  cried  Evelyn. 

“  Friend  or  foe,  let  us  front  him !”  said  Edmund.  “  Hush  I 
hark  1  I  am  not  mistaken  now  :  here  come  the  horsemen  !” 

Beyond  what  nature  could  afford  they  had  already  exerted 
themselves.  Now,  in  a  final  and  desperate  effort,  the  young 
men  often  fell  on  the  rocky  road,  as  they  approached  the  stran¬ 
ger.  Onagh  continued  to  lead  the  way,  frightening  rather 
than  cheering  them,  by  her  wild  cries  of  alternate  encourage¬ 
ment  and  despair.  At  last,  as  a  party  of  horse  clattered  down 
the  first  hill,  they  had  gained  the  second. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


255 


“  Who  goes  there  ?”  cried  the  man  they  had  seen  at  a  dis¬ 
tance. 

“Carolan’s  voice  I”  answered  M’Donnell.  “Is  it  you,  dear 
Carolan  ?” 

“  Speak  no  words,”  he  resumed,  his  ear  turned  towards  the 
coming  sounds  of  alarm  ;  “  your  pursuers  are  too  near.  I  am 
left  here  to  watch  for  you,  by  one  who,  when  the  shots  were  fired, 
galloped  back  to  bring  on  your  own  men,  in  time,  or  else  get  the 
cot  ready  in  the  first  turn  of  Red  Bay.  Upon  your  horses  !” 
he  continued,  pointing  to  a  shadowed  part  of  the  road,  where,  to 
their  great  joy,  three  strong  saddle-horses  stood — “up,  and  do 
your  best !” 

“  Up,  you,  with  us,  Carolan  !”  cried  Edmund,  as  he  and  his 
companion,  scarce  commanding  strength  enough  for  the  exertion, 
made  many  efforts  to  gain  their  saddles — “  here  is  a  third  horse/’ 

“  Heed  me  not,”  returned  the  blind  man  ;  “  it  is  better  for  me 
to  stay  here,  and  speak  the  Redshanks  fair.  Soon  may  we  meet 
again — spur,  spur  !  I  hear  the  horses  under  me.” 

“  God  bless  you,  then !”  cried  the  friends,  dashing  off. 

“  One  left  for  me  I”  exclaimed  Onagh,  springing  sideways  on 
the  saddle  of  the  third  horse,  and  galloping  after  them. 

Soon  after  they  had  got  into  a  third  hollow,  shots  were  heard 
behind. 

“  He  is  killed,”  cried  Edmund  ;  “  let  us  ride  back  and  revenge 
him.” 

“  Agreed,”  said  Evelyn,  “  or  share  his  fate.” 

“  This  way !  this  way  !  are  you  mad  !”  cried  a  shrill  voice  be¬ 
fore  them.  They  looked  up  the  again  climbing  road,  and  dis¬ 
cerned,  at  a  short  distance,  a  female  figure,  on  horseback,  in  rapid 
motion  towards  them. 

“  Mind  her  voice !”  exclaimed  Onagh  ;  “  they  will  not  dare  to 
hurt  a  hair  of  the  harper’s  head.” 

“  It  must  be  Eva !”  said  M’Donnell ;  “  and  Onagh  is,  per¬ 
haps,  right.  We  must  at  least  protect  my  sister.” 

“  My  wife  1”  echoed  Evelyn  ;  and  they  strained  against  the 
hill. 

“  Spur  !  spur  !”  continued  Eva,  as  they  approached  ;  “  the 
madmen  are  almost  on  you  !  Hear  that  1”  she  continued,  as 
some  shots  came  from  the  top  of  the  second  height,  and  the  bul¬ 
lets  whizzed  passed  them,  or  struck  against  the  rocks  that 
crowded  the  mountain-road. 

“Thank  God  !”  she  went  on,  as  they  joined  her.  “  One  rush 


256 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


now  down  the  point,  and  the  cot  waits  us  at  the  first  level  of 
the  bay  ;  and  you  will  see  a  crowd  of  friends  on  the  opposite 
shore — ride !” 

All  dashed,  like  its  own  winter-torrent,  down  the  last  fright¬ 
ful  descent,  which  has,  twice  before,  been  the  ground  of  our 
story.  With  iron-clenched  knuckles  and  joints,  the  reins  were 
held  tight,  and  the  brave  horses  scarce  stumbled  till  they  had 
won  the  side  of  the  water.  Eva  flung  herself  off  her  jennet ; 
the  young  men  and  Onagh  followed  her  example  ;  then  all  ran 
to  the  bay’s  edge,  and  jumped  into  a  long,  narrow  boat,  manned 
with  four  oars,  which  there  awaited  them.  The  moment  they 
were  within  it,  the  men  pulled  from  the  shore. 

“Row!  row!”  cried  Eva — “  row  till  your  veins  burst,  rather 
than  that  the  blood  of  the  M’Donnells  shall  be  shed  by  a  brother 
clan  1” 

The  little  boat  shot  like  a  seabird  across  Red  Bay,  scaring  the 
faint  starlight  that  slept  upon  its  bosom.  Scarce  had  it  cleared 
the  shore  two  ropes’  length,  when  a  clatter  of  horses  was  heard 
down  the  Point  of  Garron  ;  and,  in  an  instant,  the  pursuing 
party  stood  on  the  spot  where  the  fugitives  had  embarked.  But 
a  short  time  only  they  stood,  to  observe  the  progress  of  our 
friends,  and  to  give  them  another  volley,  when  they  again  dashed 
spurs  into  their  steeds,  in  an  effort  to  gain,  by  a  sweep  round 
the  square  of  Red  Bay,  the  point  to  which  the  others  rowed  in 
a  straight  line. 

“They  may  get  round  before  us  yet !”  said  Edmund.  “  I  see 
not  the  friends  you  promised,  Eva.” 

“  They  cannot — must  not !  Look  along  the  coast  to  the 
right — see  you  not  a  close  body  of  men  darkening  over  the 
strand  ?” 

“  Yes  ;  but  they  are  too  far,  and  move  but  slowly  to  meet  us. 
Pull,  men !  pull  !” 

“  Pull !  pull !”  echoed  Onagh,  “  for  see  how  the  horsemen 
turn,  like  a  blast,  round  the  bay,  and  hear  how  they  gallop, 
gallop  !  Pull!  or  may  the  next  wave  swallow  ye  !” 

Pull  they  did,  as  if,  indeed,  to  shun  her  malediction.  And  on 
came  the  horsemen,  as  if  they  coursed  on  the  “  sightless  couriers 
of  the  air.”  Already  had  they  nearly  gained  the  second  angle 
of  Red  Bay  ;  but  the  boat  was  near  to  shore,  and  the  men,  to 
whom  Edmund  continued  shouting,  near  the  point  of  safety.  An 
other  minute,  and  the  pursuers  turned  the  side  on  which  the  boat 
was  to  land,  but  which,  at  the  same  instant,  shot  into  a  little 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


257 


placid  creek,  fully  covered  by  the  timely  succor  of  a  host  of 
friends.  The  pursuers,  becoming  aware  of  this,  reined  up  their 
horses  at  but  a  short  distance,  and  then,  baffled  and  enraged, 
rode  back  slowly  by  the  bay 


CHAPTER  XX. 

“No  pause,  still  I”  cried  Eva,  soon  after  they  had  gained  the 
land  ;  “  you  are  too  important  a  prey  to  escape  so  easily  ;  your 
route  will  be  at  once  ascertained.  I  reckon  that  you,  Evelyn, 
are  bound  to  protect  your  sister,  in  the  besieged  northern  city. 
A  stronger  party  will  be  sent  to  intercept  you  on  some  point  of 
the  coast-road,  more  northward.” 

“  This  I  believe,”  said  Edmund.  “  And  we  cannot  even  take 
from  your  side,  sister,  in  these  convulsed  times,  any  portion  of 
these  faithful  friends — some,”  he  continued,  addressing  Evelyn, 
“  who,  after  the  repulse  at  Derry,  left  Lord  Antrim’s  regiment, 
and,  joined  to  others  who  had  never  quitted  Glenarriff,  formed  a 
body  for  the  immediate  protection  of  our  house.” 

“You  cannot,  you  mean,  take  them  from  our  father’s  side, 
Edmund,”  she  resumed  ;  “  for,  think  you,  I  shall  see  you  ride 
on,  in  danger,  and  remain  inactive — and  oh,  how  miserable! — at 
home  ?  No  ;  your  companion  I  will  be  till  you  are  out  of  im¬ 
mediate  peril.  Heaven  knows  how  you  can  yet  be  safely  dis¬ 
posed  of,  till  the  savage  anger  of  the  old  earl  and  his  people  is 
appeased  and  reasoned  down.  But  I  think  that  you  should  push 
on  sufficiently  near  to  the  English  lines  to  remain  out  of  reach 
of  your  own  friends — your  foes,  alas  !  for  the  time.” 

“  What  a  wretch  I  am,”  said  Evelyn,  “  to  have  caused  this 
trouble  and  danger  to  you,  Edmund !” 

“No,”  cried  Eva,  “you  caused  it  not.  Or — be  that  as  it 
may,  my  brother  only  did  what,  if  he  had  left  undone,  must  have 
made  him  forever  unworthy  of  the  blood  and  name  he  bears. 
But  let  us  think  solely  of  our  present  situation.” 

“  A  few  of  our  people,”  said  Edmund,  “  should  be  quickly 
dispatched  along  the  road  we  have  to  travel,  and  take  post 
about  the  passes  of  Knocklaide,  outside  Ballycastle,  as  that  is 
the  point  where,  in  all  probability,  Lord  Antrim’s  soldiers, 


25S 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


rapidly  approaching  by  another  route,  will  try  to  intercept 
us. 

This  proceeding  was,  after  some  discussion,  decided  upon. 
Two  men  accordingly  moved  in  the  direction  spoken  of. 

“  And  now  to  the  Strip  of  Burne,”  resumed  Eva  ;  **  yet  only 
for  an  hour’s  rest  and  refreshment.  It  is  long  past  midnight, 
and  the  early  dawn  should  see  us  sweeping  by  the  Fair-Head, 
towards  Knocklaide.” 

All  turned  to  the  right,  to  gain  the  Strip  of  Burne.  As 
they  proceeded,  Edmund  and  Evelyn  pronounced  in  a  breath, 
and  with  great  alarm,  the  name  of  Carolan. 

“  Fear  not  for  him,”  said  Eva  ;  “  he  has  since  been  in  the 
south,  and  is  now  intrusted  with  such  credentials  to  Lord 
Antrim  as  must  insure  him  not  only  a  safe  guidance,  but  a  cor¬ 
dial  welcome.  None,  amongst  our  enemies,  suspect  the  wander¬ 
ings  of  the  poor  harper  ;  yet  was  not  his  late  visit  to  the  black 
north  entirely  on  account  of  his  private  griefs,  nor  has  he  now 
returned  to  it  without  a  purpose.  So  much  I  learned  from  him, 
this  morning,  when  he  crossed  our  threshold  to  make  a  passing 
visit.  And — to  speak  of  other  matters — never,  Edmund,  shall 
I  forget  the  zeal  and  promptness  of  his  feelings  and  exertions  on 
your  and  Evelyn’s  account,  when,  as  we  sat  conversing  together, 
Black  Coll  came  running  from  the  little  Deer  Park,  to  tell  us  of 
your  danger.  He  comforted  me,  he  counselled  me,  and  he  acted 
for  me.  He  would  not  quit  my  side.  And  when,  at  last,  the 
shots  sent  me  back  to  make  one  desperate  contrivance  for  your 
safety,  poor  Carolan  assumed  the  post  of  service  and  of  danger, 
on  the  road,  where  you  found  him.” 

Accompanied,  or  rather  kept  in  view  by  the  body  of  men, 
they  soon  gained  the  Strip  of  Burne.  Once  more  Evelyn  was 
kindly  received  by  Eva’s  father  ;  once  more  he  sat  in  friendship 
at  her  father’s  hearth  ;  once  more  he  sat  in  friendship  by  her 
own  side.  But  he  could  not  avoid  noticing  in  the  manner  of  all, 
a  something  that  had  no  share  in  their  former  intercourse.  Only 
a  few  hours  ago,  Edmund  and  he  had  warmly  agreed  to  admit 
their  old  understanding  ;  yet  Edmund,  though  kind  indeed,  was 
not  the  Edmund  he  formerly  knew.  His  permitted  kiss  was  yet 
warm  on  the  lips  of  Eva,  and  she  seemed  to  have  forgot¬ 
ten  her  late  hostility  ;  yet  she  was  not  the  Eva  who  had  once 
confessed  that  her  soul,  life,  and  happiness  were  in  his  keeping. 
He  fancied  that  the  whole  show  of  warmth  he  met,  and  all  the 
zeal  and  devotedness  evinced  in  his  behalf,  sprang  from  a  spirit 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


259 


of  pride,  not  of  returning  confidence  and  affection — from  a 
haughty  sense  of  honorable  duty,  rather  than  from  a  sincere 
wish  to  renew  the  vows  that  had  so  often  been  mutually  inter¬ 
changed. 

This  view  of  his  situation  kept  Evelyn  restless  and  dispirited 
during  his  short  halt  in  old  M’Donnell’s  house.  And  such  feel¬ 
ings  were  increased  in  consequence  of  the  part  acted  by  the 
dumb  man,  Con  M’ Donnell,  who,  at  Evelyn’s  entrance,  had 
shown  him  but  a  cool  welcome,  and  who  afterwards  refused  to 
sit  down  to  eat  or  drink  with  the  party  ;  taking  his  stand  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  and  looking  wistfully  abroad  ;  or  else 
flinging  himself  on  a  remote  seat,  either  very  seriously  or  sullen¬ 
ly,  and  again  starting  from  it  to  the  open  doorway. 

At  last,  the  man’s  proceedings  became  still  more  strange,  if 
not  still  more  alarming.  Getting  some  sudden  whim  into  his 
head,  he  ran  suddenly  from  the  door  towards  Evelyn,  took  his 
hat  from  the  table,  abruptly  presented  it  to  him,  and  motioned 
that  he  should  depart.  Old  M’Donnell  checked  him  by  signs, 
as  Evelyn  calmly  placed  his  hat  on  the  table.  But  Con  seemed 
little  put  out  of  countenance  ;  again  he  stood  at  the  door  ; 
again  he  rushed  in,  and  again  urged  Evelyn’s  speedy  departure. 

“  He  fears — I  should  almost  say,  foretells — some  coming  dan¬ 
ger,”  said  Edmund.  “  For,  afflicted  as  our  poor  uncle  is — cut 
off  from  all  the  ordinary  communication  with  probable  occur¬ 
rences,  one  can  scarce  attribute  to  any  thing  but  a  spirit  of 
prophecy,  the  frequent  consciousness  he  has  evinced  of  approach¬ 
ing  events.  I  will  give  you  a  remarkable  instance  of  what  I 
mean. 

44  One  dark,  stormy  night,  in  November,  when  all  had  retired 
to  rest,  he  was  observed  to  get  hastily  out  of  bed,  run  to  the 
cow-shed,  drive  out  the  cattle  into  an  adjacent  field,  and  then 
return  to  his  sleeping-chamber.  The  servants,  who  watched  his 
motions,  not  wishing  to  leave  the  poor  animals  exposed  to  the 
rigor  of  an  inclement  night,  drove  them  back  again  to  their 
shelter,  as  soon  as  they  thought  he  was  asleep.  But  to  their 
increased  surprise,  they  had  scarcely  retired,  after  doing  so,  when 
my  uncle  again  visited  the  place,  again  compelled  the  cattle  to 
leave  it,  and  again  went  to  bed.  A  second  time  the  servants 
counteracted  his  measures  ;  a  third  time  he  renewed  them. 
The  people,  at  last  getting  weary,  allowed  him  to  indulge  his 
humor.  Towards  morning,  all  were  aroused  by  a  great  noise  ; 
and,  on  examination,  it  appeared  that  the  cow-house  had  fallen 


260 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


in,  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  a  large  hayrick  that  was  piled  oa 
its  roof,  and  which,  had  it  fallen  on  the  cattle,  must  certainly 
have  crushed  them  to  death.” 

The  anecdote  was  not  well  finished,  when  the  subject  of  it 
repeated  his  urgency  to  Evelyn. 

“  Whatever  may  be  his  meaning,”  said  Eva,  “  it  is  time  we 
were  on  the  road  and  she  rose  to  prepare  for  her  journey. 
Edmund  and  Evelyn  also  rose.  When  their  uncle  saw  them  ob¬ 
viously  getting  ready,  the  pleasure  he  had  shown  at  a  prospect 
of  Evelyn’s  parting  yielded  to  the  wildest  surprise,  terror,  and 
finally  indignation,  as  soon  as  he  understood  who  were  to  be 
his  companions.  He  uttered  one  of  his  unnatural  cries  ;  plucked 
out  of  the  hands  of  his  nephew  and  niece  the  whips,  hats,  gloves, 
and  other  articles  they  had  taken  up  ;  shut  the  door,  put  his 
back  to  it,  and  with  frantic  signs  commanded  them  to  remain 
where  they  were.  It  took  some  precious  time,  and  much  earnest 
interference,  on  the  part  of  his  brother,  to  oblige  the  dumb 
prophet  of  evil  to  yield  a  free  way  to  the  young  party.  When 
he  was  at  length  compelled  to  leave  the  doorway,  he  burst  off, 
in  a  mighty  passion,  to  his  own  apartment,  without  any  leave- 
taking  ;  and  they  could  hear  him  lock  himself  in,  as  if  implaca¬ 
bly  enraged  and  offended.  J ust  before  they  got  on  horseback, 
he  as  furiously  rushed  back  again,  renewed  his  admonitions  in  a 
more  entreating  style  than  before,  and,  when  every  endeavor 
failed,  burst  into  tears,  uttered  cries  of  the  wildest  pathos, 
clasped  his  niece  and  nephew  to  his  heart,  and  ran,  as  if  despair¬ 
ing,  from  them. 

The  young  travellers,  once  more  reunited  in  the  dangers  of  the 
road,  and  attended  but  by  two  men,  who  were  to  return  with 
Eva,  set  off,  on  fresh  horses,  for  the  village  of  Ballycastle.  The 
road  did  not  continue  to  run  so  near  the  coast  as,  between  Glen- 
arm  and  Glenarriff,  it  had  done  ;  but,  sweeping  through  valley 
after  valley,  and  over  hill  after  hill,  shut  out,  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  way,  all  view  of  the  ocean,  taking  an  almost  straight 
direction  towards  Fair-Head,  and  dispensing  with  the  curvatures 
formed,  on  the  way,  by  Tor-Head  and  other  nearer  headlands. 

Before  leaving  Glenarriff,  Evelyn  had  silently  resolved  to  lead 
Eva,  if  possible,  into  some  acknowledgment  of  her  forgiveness  of 
the  past  ;  or,  at  all  events,  into  some  conversation  relating  to  it 
For  this  purpose  he  took,  the  moment  they  started,  the  most 
favorable  place  at  her  side.  Gratified  that  M’Donnell  seemed  in¬ 
tentionally  to  lag  behind,  in  conversation  with  the  men,  he  now 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


261 


only  waited  to  arrange  his  thoughts  into  the  best  mode  of  ex¬ 
pression,  when  Eva  suddenly  turned  in  her  saddle,  and  called  out 
her  brother’s  name,  who,  immediately  attending  her,  remained 
during  the  whole  night  at  her  other  side.  The  sister  and 
brother  conversed  fluently  together.  Evelyn,  disappointed, 
grieved,  and  somewhat  vexed,  was  silent. 

Often  he  asked  himself  why  he  should  be  so  ;  why  he  should 
consider  M’Donnell’s  presence  as  an  obstacle  to  any  conversation 
he  might  wish  to  hold  with  Eva.  Why,  in  fact,  he  did  not 
speak  out,  before  him,  as  freely  as  he  wished  to  do  with  his  sis¬ 
ter,  inasmuch  as  the  explanation  he  was  disposed  to  give  certainly 
concerned  the  one  as  much  as  the  other.  Often,  too,  having  per¬ 
suaded  himself  of  the  propriety,  indeed  necessity,  of  such  a  course, 
he  was  about  to  break  silence,  and  begin.  But,  as  often,  his 
heart  or  his  temper  failed  him  ;  he  felt  disinclined,  he  knew  not 
why,  to  humble  his  spirit  to  young  M’ Donnell ;  or,  at  least,  to 
address  to  him,  in  common  with  the  woman  of  his  choice,  any 
words  that  would  acknowledge  the  rash  and  unfeeling  part  he 
well  knew  he  had  acted. 

Wondering,  perhaps,  at  his  taciturnity,  M’Donnell  directed  to 
him,  from  time  to  time,  a  question  or  remark  upon  some  common 
subject  ;  or  Eva  appealed  to  him  for  an  opinion,  in  support  of 
her  own,  and  connected  with  subjects  discussed  by  herself  and 
her  brother.  But  the  brief  or  embarrassed  replies  of  Evelyn, 
giving,  unknown  to  him,  an  appearance  of  reserve  and  coolness — 
they  were,  in  fact,  only  the  natural  result  of  his  agitated  state  of 
feeling— his  friends  soon  became  as  taciturn  as  himself.  Their 
journey  thus  continued  a  very  cheerless  one  ;  the  bad  road,  and 
the  monotonous  succession  of  hill  and  valley,  valley  and  hill,  lit¬ 
tle  cultivated,  scarce  inhabited,  and  lying  blank  and  undefined 
in  darkness,  contributing  not  a  little  to  the  dreariness  of  their 
sensations. 

But  when  the  morning  broke,  and  that  the  travellers,  sweep¬ 
ing  over  a  commanding  eminence,  saw  it  calling  into  shape  the 
distant  ocean  to  their  right  and  straight  before  them  ;  the 
islands  that  lay  upon  it,  the  bold  headlands  that  ran  into  it,  and 
the  intervening  hills,  clad  in  green  or  brown,  or  crested  with 
rocky  pinnacles — the  spirits  of  each  rose  with  the  rising  day, 
and,  all  individual  vexations  for  a  moment  unthought  of,  they  felt 
cheered,  if  not  happy. 

“  Yon,”  said  Eva,  pointing  to  the  headland  right  before  them, 
and  which  lay  at  about  three  miles’  distance,  yon’s  the  Fair-Head. 


262 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Why  called  fair,  I  know  not,”  said  her  brother,  “  for  ’tis  as 
foul  a  point  as  ever  was  doubled  in  a  rough  sea.” 

“  And  to  the  left,”  she  resumed,  pointing  to  a  very  high  in¬ 
land  mountain,  with  a  curious  round,  flat  top — “  behold  old 
Knocklaide,  which  has,  on  its  summit,  a  cairn  called,  by  some, 
“  The  Cairn  of  the  Three” — meaning  the  three  sons  of  Ushna, 
whose  chivalrous  adventures  and  tragical  death  form  the  subject 
of  one  of  our  most  beautiful  Ossianic  poems.  That,  however,  is 
not  our  present  concern  with  it.” 

“  No,”  said  M’Donnell,  “  but  the  rather  to  see  whether 
or  not  there  glimmer  on  its  sides,  or  at  its  base,  some  score 
hand-pikes  or  broadswords  more  than  at  present  we  have  need 
for.” 

The  two  men  who  had  been  dispatched  to  reconnoitre  now 
jumped  on  the  road. 

“  What  news  ?”  asked  Edmund. 

“  You  must  not  pass  Knocklaide,  to-day,”  they  answered  ; 
“  your  enemies  are  there  before  you.” 

“  Then,  where  shall  we  shelter  us  ?”  he  asked,  turning  to  Eva, 
“  back  we  cannot  go.  And  there  is  no  house — not  even  a  safe 
cavern — in  this  wild  nook,  nearer  than  the  Fair-Head.” 

“  And  thither  a  M’Donnell  should  not  face  for  safety,”  added 
Eva,  half  smiling. 

“No,  sister  ;  the  place  was  never  friendly  to  our  family,”  her 
brother  replied,  more  seriously. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?”  asked  Evelyn,  “  is  not  the  whole  dis¬ 
trict  uninhabited  ?” 

“  Yes,”  replied  Edmund,  “  but  not  the  less  objectionable.” 

“  It  has  only  one  inhabitant,”  said  the  elder  of  the  couriers, 
“  an’  that’s  the  Gray  Man.” 

“  He  was  seen  on  this  path  last  night,”  subjoined  the  other, 
mysteriously — “  where  he  hasn’t  been  since  the  night  when  your 
honor’s  father  lost  his  own.” 

Edmund’s  countenance  assumed  a  still  graver  expression,  and 
he  appeared  occupied  with  disagreeable  thoughts.  Evelyn  knew 
not  what  to  make  of  the  conversation  he  had  heard,  and  much 
wished  to  ask  for  information  ;  but  in  the  presence  of  the  men, 
delicacy  checked  him.  One  of  them  continued  by  stating  that, 
previous  to  the  event  last  mentioned,  the  Gray  Man  of  Fair- 
Head  had  not  appeared  on  his  “  path”  since  a  celebrated  chief¬ 
tain  of  the  M’ Donnells,  returning  from  a  visit  to  Scotland,  was 
wrecked  on  the  coast. 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


263 


11  Come,  come,  Edmund,”  resumed  Eva,  “  you  know  I  have 
always  tried  to  laugh  you  out  of  this  conceit,  and  I  must  do  so 
now.  First,  let  me  correct  the  bad  and  lame  tradition  of  these 
men  ;  they  are  wrong  in  saying  that  from  the  time  of  Cromwell’s 
confiscation  this  bugbear  of  our  family  was  not,  until  last  night, 
seen  on  this  path.  Do  you  not  recollect  when  our  Uncle  Ron¬ 
ald  broke  his  neck  hunting  the  deer  over  the  flat  land  between 
our  present  resting-place  and  the  Head  ?  Did  not  the  whole 
country  aver  that  the  Gray  Man  appeared  the  evening  before? 
Was  not  our  grandfather’s  second  bride  also  lost  on  the  coast, 
when  only  crossing  home,  after  her  marriage,  from  Rathlin  to 
our  continent  ? — and  all  in  consequence  of  another  appearance. 
Nay,  there  was  yet  another,  for  which  none  of  us  could  account, 
except,  indeed,  that,  in  two  days  after  it,  my  mother’s  black  cat 
died.  You  see  I  am  skilled  in  all  this  lore.  Need  I  remind  you 
also — apart  from  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing — that  scarce 
an  old  family  in  the  north,  but  appropriates,  in  common  with 
ourselves,  the  Gray  Man,  his  path,  and  his  talent  for  making 
them  miserable,  allowing  to  no  others  a  claim  over  their  assumed 
and  unenviable  privilege  ?  Come,  I  say,  yon  awful  ground  we 
will  tread,  notwithstanding  the  warning  of  ages.  Nay,  should 
we  be  necessitated  to  wear  out  the  precious  night  there,  upon  yon 
still  more  awful  path  shall  we  keep  midnight  watch,  and  dare 
this  portentous  man,  black,  brown,  or  gray,  as  he  may  be,  hob¬ 
goblin,  ghost,  or  living  seer — to  a  friendly  interview.  It  is  time 
we  were  moving  from  our  present  exposed  stand  ;  the  morning 
begins  to  shine  fully  out,  and  if  there  be  keen  eyes  on  Knock- 
laide,  we  must  soon  be — if  we  have  not  already  been — observed. 
Follow  me,  sirs.” 

Deviating  from  the  road,  she  put  her  horse  in  motion,  and 
was  followed  over  trackless  and  uneven  ground,  which  gradually 
descending,  soon  deprived  them  of  a  continued  view  of  the  sea. 
After  some  further  progress,  the  land  became,  for  a  short  dis¬ 
tance,  level,  though  still  very  rough.  Then  it  once  more  rose, 
but  not  precipitously.  Eva  continued  to  lead  against  this  as- 
ceut,  leaping  across  many  natural  drains,  which,  at  first,  inter¬ 
sected  the  ground,  and  then  through  clumps  of  furze,  and  over 
patches  of  bedded  rock.  Until,  finally,  the  party  gained  a 
nearly  flat  stretch  of  barren  land,  terminating  straight  before 
them,  in  a  horizontal  line,  beyond  which  was  the  parallel  line  of 
the  ocean.  Here  they  dismounted,  aud,  leaving  their  horses  to 
the  men,  continued  their  way  forward. 


264 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


As  they  approached  the  bounding  line,  all  became  conscious 
that  they  verged  towards  a  great  precipice.  Indeed,  they  soon 
stood  on  a  safe  point,  from  which  they  could  hazard  a  look 
downward. 

“  Sit  down  by  this  broom-tuft,”  said  Eva,  “  and  let  us  look 
around.  I  have  sat  here  before,  and  can  act  the  guide.  Yon¬ 
der,”  pointing  a  little  to  the  left,  “  at  only  a  few  miles’  distance 
is  Rathlin  Island  ;  or,  as  the  natives  call  it,  Raherry — dear  R 
Scotchmen  for  once  having  afforded  shelter  to  Robert  the 
Bruce  ;  you  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  castle.  The  more  dis¬ 
tant  land  over  it,  or  at  either  side  of  it,  are  Isla  and  the  Paps 
of  Jura.  Still,  to  the  right,  you  plainly  see  the  hills  of  Arran. 
How  beautifully,  as  the  eye  follows  the  horizon  line,  appears  that 
long,  craggy,  isolated  island,  and  that  other  round  one,  the  most 
remote  of  all,  rising  out  of  the  blue  waves  like  the  dome  of  a 
great  building,  the  continuation  of  which  fancy  may  suppose 
sunk  below  them — an  ocean-god’s  palace,  based  on  the  bottom 
of  the  seal  ” 

But,”  asked  Evelyn,  "  before  we  travel  so  far,  what  is  that 
large  sweep  of  land,  nearer  to  us  than  any  we  can  see,  except¬ 
ing  the  Bruce’s  island  ?” 

“  The  Mull  of  Canty  re — only  about  twice  the  distance,  in¬ 
deed,  of  Raherry  ;  and,  although  an  island  too,  yet  considered 
part  of  the  Scottish  mainland.  To  your  extreme  right,  and  at 
a  greater  distance,  you  look  on  bonny  Scotland  still.  Over  part 
of  the  water  between  Cantyre  and  that  more  remote  land,  your 
eye  traverses  the  mouth  of  the  Frith  of  Clyde.  Is  it  not  inex¬ 
pressibly,  indeed  unaccountably  exciting,  to  sit  thus,  on  the 
verge  of  one  country,  and  look  across  the  dividing  waters  into 
another  ?  I,  at  least,  have  always  felt  it  so,  though  I  know  not 
clearly  why.  But,  as  one  gazes  on  hills  and  mountains,  trodden 
by  a  strange  people,  such  common  features  of  nature  assume  an 
aspect  as  strange  as  our  thoughts  of  them.  You  imagine  you 
have  seen  none  like  them  at  home  ;  and  the  young  heart  beats 
with  curiosity  to  wander  among  them,  half  with  awe  at  the  ven¬ 
ture.  Such  have  been,  I  believe,  the  nature  of  my  sensations, 
particularly  when  I  first  saw,  walking  on  a  shore  then  hostile  to 
her,  the  land  of  beautiful  France  ;  and  again  when,  after  a  long 
absence,  and  having  before  known  nothing  of  our  sister  country, 
I  gazed  across  the  sea,  on  the  white  coast  of  powerful  England.” 

“ I  have  felt  the  like  emotions,”  said  Evelyn  :  “I  have  felt 
how  strange  a  thing  it  is  to  see  the  family  of  earth  so  divided. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


265 


How  strange  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  one  nation,  and  look,  bnt 
a  few  leagues,  into  the  bosom  of  another,  yet  know  that  it  con¬ 
tains  a  branch  of  that  common  family,  so  different  in  language, 
dress,  complexion,  manners,  and  policy,  as  might  serve  for  a  con¬ 
trast  in  another  world  1  But  where  is  your  Gray  Man’s  Path  ? 
Have  we  already  traversed  it  ?  Does  it  lie  concealed  in  the 
wild  at  our  back  ?  Or,  perhaps,  with  some  violent  contradic¬ 
tion  of  words,  you  may  point  it  out  in  the  pathless  ocean.  ” 

“  Follow  me,”  said  Eva.  The  young  men  rising,  followed  her 
to  the  right  some  short  distance  by  the  line  of  the  cliff  ;  then, 
turning  a  little  inward,  they  gained  the  opening  of  the  Gray 
Man’s  Path. 

If — to  compare  great  things  with  small — the  reader  supposes 
himself  looking  down  a  straight,  tremendous  staircase  (such  as 
Piranesi  might  dream  for  one  of  his  cloud-piercing  palaces)  con¬ 
fined  between  two  walls  of  rock,  and  of  which  the  bottom,  on 
account  of  the  irregular  projection  of  its  craggy  steps,  cannot  be 
seen,  he  will  at  once  have  a  general  idea  of  this  natural  wonder. 
At  some  remote  period,  during  an  explosion  of  earthquake,  or 
perhaps  of  frost,  the  outside  precipice  had  been  cleanly  cleft 
through  its  face,  some  paces  inland,  and  half  the  displaced  frag¬ 
ments  hurled  to  the  beach  or  to  the  sea  ;  while  the  other  half 
arresting  each  other  in  their  descent,  formed  an  abrupt  and 
rugged  inclined  plane,  of  nearly  one  thousand  feet  from  the 
flat  ground  that  gave  descent  into  it,  to  the  very  level  of  the 
ocean. 

“  This,”  resumed  Eva,  “  is  the  path  of  the  shadowy  being 
whose  imagined  existence  so  much  frightens  us  all.  On  the  eve 
of  some  coming  calamity  he  may  be  seen,  to  appearance  a  tall, 
gaunt,  aged  man,  clothed  in  some  vaguely-conceived  gray  dress, 
toiling  up  and  down  among  the  rocks  that  give  him  his  only  foot¬ 
ing.  Look  at  this  huge  natural  pillar  that  has  fallen  over  the 
chasm,  at  top,  from  side  to  side.  Sometimes  he  has  been  discerned 
from  the  sea,  sitting  upon  this  pillar,  no  ways  fearful  of  adding 
bis  weight  to  its  already  insecure  position — for  you  may  see  it 
nas  hardly  any  rest,  at  either  side,  and  looks  as  if  the  hopping 
of  a  bird  upon  it  could  hurl  it  down  the  path.  But  whether  he 
be  seen  sitting  or  moving,  the  fisher  who,  in  the  twilight,  or 
while  the  midnight  moon  shines  clearly,  discerns,  afar  off,  the 
Gray  Man’s  figure  on  the  Fair-Head,  will  tack  his  little  vessel, 
and,  for  that  night,  tempt  no  further  the  iron-bound  coast. 
While,  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  the  night,  at  which  his  bark 

12 


266 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ploughs  by,  he  prays  to  be  delivered  from  the  bad  omen  of  his 
appearance.” 

“  But  come,”  she  continued,  “  as  he  does  not  frequently  reveal 
himself,  and  especially  as  it  is  now  broad  daylight,  who  will  de¬ 
scend,  with  me,  this  rude  staircase,  for  the  matter-of-fact  pur¬ 
pose  of  trying  to  hail  a  boat  which  may  convey  us  round  the 
coast,  to  our  place  of  destination  ?” 

“  You  do  not  surely  mean  to  venture  down  that  chasm,”  re¬ 
monstrated  Evelyn  ;  “  it  cannot  be  safe  or  practicable.” 

“I  do,  indeed,  propose  to  go  down,  because  I  know  it  is 
both.  I  have  gone  down,  and  come  up,  often  before.” 

“  Then  I  will  accompany  you,”  cried  Evelyn,  eagerly,  his  one 
thought  of  a  private  conversation  with  Eva  still  uppermost,  while 
he  sincerely  hoped  Edmund  would  refuse. 

“Do  so,”  said  Edmund,  meeting  his  wish  ;  “I  shall  remain 
here  to  look  out  towards  Knocklaide.” 

Eva  paused  a  moment,  in  quick  thought ;  then,  as  if  she  had 
taken  her  resolution,  moved  towards  the  opening  of  the  path. 
Evelyn  offered  his  hand.  “No,”  she  said,  “no  such  ceremony 
here  ;  it  is  useless,  because  unavailable.  I  only  require  you  to 
follow,  and  give  yourself — your  eyes  especially — no  trouble  about 
me.” 

Both  accordingly  began  to  descend,  very  slowly,  stepping  and 
clinging  from  rock  to  rock,  and  sometimes  inconvenienced  with  a 
spot  of  abrupt  loose  earth.  In  such  a  progress  it  was  impossi¬ 
ble  for  Evelyn  to  address  Eva,  who,  as  he  moved,  still  kept  some 
distance  below  him.  Or,  if  a  favorable  moment  for  speaking 
did  occur,  she  seemed  designedly  to  anticipate  him  by  speaking 
herself,  and  directing  his  notice  to  the  features  of  the  scene 
around  them. 

The  fissure,  at  top,  was  but  a  few  feet  broad.  As  they  de¬ 
scended,  however,  it  gradually  widened  ;  showing,  at  either  side, 
basalt  pillars,  of  a  nearly  perfect  kind,  beautifully  varied  in 
T-nge  and  elevation :  until,  at  the  bottom,  they  rose  to  a  height 
of  between  two  and  three  hundred  feet. 

Evelyn  gained  the  base  of  the  precipice,  and  looking  up  and 
around  him,  his  private  feelings  gave  way,  for  a  moment,  to  the 
•  tremendous  influence  of  the  scene.  Straight  upward  ran  the 
basaltic  pillars  of  the  Fair-Head  ;  before  him  was  the  vast 
ocean.  Around  were  the  mighty  fragments  that,  at  its  making 
or  marring,  had  tumbled  from  the  precipice — enough  to  yield 
material  for  all  the  cities  that  earth  ever  saw  ;  and  looking,  on 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


267 


account  of  their  columnar  shape,  like  the  ruins  of  some  elder 
city  of  giants,  who,  ere  man’s  present  dwarfish  race  sprang  from 
the  slime  of  the  flood,  might  have  possessed  the  world,  and 
built  themselves  fitting  palaces  upon  its  surface. 

“  What  a  sight  and  sound  must  have  been  here,  Evelyn,”  said 
Eva,  “  during  the  creation  or  the  ruin  that  caused  this  scene  ! 
Was  the  sea  here  before  it  happened  ?  Did  the  strong  hand  of 
God  rend  into  pieces  a  previously  solid  globe,  pushing  one  part 
here,  and  another  there,  to  form  so  many  countries.  And  then, 
did  the  foamy  waves  come  roaring  and  tumbling  to  fill  up  the 
abyss  ?  Oh  !  mighty  is  the  God  of  nature,  however  it  has  been 
— mighty,  thrice  mighty,  is  He  in  a  place  like  this — even  though 
He  seems  to  have  wrought  here  but  for  destruction — thrice 
mighty  1”  Overcome  by  enthusiasm,  she  clasped  her  hands, 
knelt  down,  and  prayed,  fervently,  although  silently.  This, 
Evelyn  felt,  was  no  purposed  direction  of  discourse,  to  keep  him 
from  a  dreaded  topic,  whatever  might  have  been  the  speaker’s 
first  object.  He  saw  that  from  Eva’s  soul  tears  started  to  her 
eyes,  and  that  her  spirit  had  for  a  moment  flown  to  do  homage 
to  its  Creator.  His  own  eyes  filled,  as  he  looked  upon  her  with 
admiration,  sympathy,  and  profoundest  love.  Perhaps  his  tears 
were  bitterer  than  Eva’s,  at  the  thought  that  a  creature  so  beau¬ 
tiful,  so  gifted,  and  so  good,  was — even  after  she  had  sworn  to 
be  his — grown  indifferent  to  him.  He  turned  away  his  head,  as 
she  arose,  to  hide  the  emotion  that  a  continuance  of  this  mis¬ 
giving  rendered  too  evident. 

“  I  offer  no  excuse,”  she  said  softly,  “  for  having  acted  as  if 
you  were  not  present.” 

“  How,  Eva  !  am  I  as  a  stranger  to  you,  then  ?”  he  asked, 
in  a  sad  voice.  Eva,  not  noticing  him,  spoke  wide  of  the  point. 

“  Now,  however,  as  one  acquainted  with  this  scenery,  I  owe 
you  some  information.  Look  up,  and  see,  in  Fair-Head,  the 
Robogdium  Promontorium  of  Ptolemy.  See,  also — we  just 
get  a  glimpse  of  it — an  unbroken,  an  unjointed  pillar  of  rock, 
two  hundred  feet  high,  the  largest  in  the  world.  But  what  is 
the  matter  ?  you  are  very  ill — or  agitated.” 

“  Oh,  Eva,”  he  said,  overpowered  by  his  feelings,  “  forgive 
me  1  I  have  acted,  I  know  not  how — done,  I  know  not  what  ! 
but  every  thing  that  was  at  once  unworthy  of  you,  and  of  the 
love  I  bore  you.  I  was  mad — I  have  suffered !  I  am  miserable, 
penitent,  and  humbled,  too,  in  my  very  soul.  I  entreat  your 
forgiveness— I  kneel  for  it.” 


268 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“No,  Evelyn,”  she  said,  arresting  him,  “you  shall  never  bend 
a  knee — you  never  ought  to  bend  it — to  the  woman  who  has 
vowed  to  you  the  honor  and  obedience  of  a  wife  to  a  husband.” 

“  Then  say  I  am  forgiven — say — ” 

“This  Isay,  Evelyn.  Although  in  the  first  burst  of  that  most 
extraordinary  outrage,  and  while  its  first  effects  continued,  my 
mind  and  spirit  utterly  cast  you  off,  still  was  my  heart  reclaim- 
able  to  you.  And  when  I  lately  reflected  on  the  whole  occur¬ 
rence — the  political  deception  practised  on  both  sides,  the  bad 
advisers  on  both,  the  hastiness  of  Edmund,  and  the  hot  words 
he  used  ;  when,  also,  I  recollected  my  promise  at  the  altar,  and 
was  further  reminded  of  it  by  the  good  old  man  who  joined  our 
hands — and  when,  too,  I  saw  that  my  brother  was  wretched  in 
consequence  of  our  common  separation — but,  most  of  all,  when 
I  heard  that  you  were  in  misfortune  and  danger,  then,  Evelyn — 
dear  Evelyn — even  before  our  last  meeting,  I  had  nothing — 
nothing  to  forgive  !” 

Speechless  with  delight,  Evelyn  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 
After  a  little,  Eva  continued  : 

“  An  oath  I  had  sworn — a  bitter,  angry  oath,  never  to  for¬ 
give  or  know  you,  Evelyn.  But  it  was  an  unlawful  and  silly 
oath,  along  with  being  an  angry  one.  It  could  not  affect  my  pre¬ 
vious  vow  to  stay  by  your  side,  even  unto  death.  God  has  no 
registry  of  it,  except  to  my  confusion.  That,  too,  ceased  to  be 
an  obstacle  between  us.  I  now  own  I  but  waited  your  introduc¬ 
tion  of  the  present  subject,  to  say  all  I  have  said  ;  while — while 
— I  thought,  once  or  twice,  you  made  me  wait  too  long — and 
that  your  manner  showed  the  reverse  of  the  anxiety  you  now 
express.” 

“  Could  there  have  been  such  a  seeming  ?  Alas  !  if  so,  it 
was  the  effect  of  very  different  feelings,  my  Eva.  I,  too,  had 
formed — thank  Heaven  !  erroneous  opinions  of  your  thoughts 
towards  me.  But  now  doubt  has  flown  from  both  our  hearts, 
and  there  is  nothing  but  happiness  in  the  future.” 

“Of  that  future,  dear  Evelyn,  I  wished  to  speak — do  not  in¬ 
terrupt  me.  You  and  I  are  still  politically  opposed  at  the  very 
moment — in  the  very  fervor  of  a  political  contest.  Either  of 
us  must  retire  from  the  field,  or — until  the  storm  has  passed 
over — we  must  remain  separate.” 

“  Eva,”  he  said,  tenderly,  but  gravely,  “  I  will  not  understand 
that  you  wish  me  to  turn  traitor  to  a  cause  in  which  I  have 
taken  an  oath  to  remain  faithful  ” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


269 


“  You  do  right,”  she  answered,  her  eye  flashing,  “not  to  sup¬ 
pose  it.  Having  once  chosen  your  side,  I  should,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  despise  you  for  betraying  it.  No  ;  I  meant  not  that.  But 
there  is  another  course.  It  is  no  treachery  to  withdraw,  alto¬ 
gether,  from  the  contest.” 

“  Except,  Eva,  the  treachery  of  cowardice.” 

Both  paused.  Evelyn  continued  softly — 

“  But  if  such  a  course  be  indeed  necessary — if  one  or  the 
other  must  stand  neutral — why,  dearest  Eva,  should  not  you  be 
that  one  ?  You,  a  woman — my  wife — whom  no  hutnau  being 
can  expect  to  take  an  active  part  against  me — would  it  not  be 
more  natural  than  that  I,  a  man,  and  an  accountable  one,  should 
forsake  the  friends  who  have  called  me  to  an  honorable  place  by 
their  side  ?” 

“  Ask  me  not  that,”  she  answered,  vehemently  ;  “  name  it  not, 
Evelyn  I  I,  who  in  this  cause  have  at  stake  the  lives  of  a  broth¬ 
er  and  a  father,  the  freedom  of  my  country,  and  the  worship 
of  my  God  ;  who,  from  my  cradle,  have  dreamt  of  such  a  cause, 
and  felt  my  whole  soul  expand  to  meet  it — can  I  be  expected, 
can  I  be  asked  to  stand  coldly  neutral  while  it  abides  the  trial  ? 
No  ;  though  the  consequences  should  be  ruin  to  my  earthly 
peace — destructive  to  my  love  of  you — though  I  lose  you  in  the 
struggle — worse,  though  we  should  clash  in  it — though  what 
does  now  seem  so  unlikely,  we  should  meet  in  the  very  field  of 
strife,  armed  and  sworn  foes  to  each  other,  yet  must  I  not  show 
coldness  or  indifference  in  acting  the  part  I  am  called  on  to  act  J 
Every  consideration  requires  the  contrary  at  my  hands.  The 
past  ;  the  present ;  the  future  ;  our  former  wrongs  ;  our  present 
sufferings,  joined  to  the  call  of  a  king  betrayed  and  insulted,  an 
altar  overthrown  and  darkened,  and  a  country  outraged  and  de¬ 
fied  ;  the  hopes  of  honorable  redress,  too,  if  I  may  not  add, 
honorable  revenge — judge  for  me  if  here  be  not  sufficient  and  irre¬ 
sistible  obligations  !” 

“But,  beloved  Eva,  nothing  to  show  a  necessity  for  our  lives 
and  fortunes  continuing  separate.” 

“  What !  do  you  hope  for  peace  and  warfare  in  the  same 
family  ?  confidence  in  divided  interests  ?  union  in  struggle  ?  love 
in  political  jealousy  ?  No,  Evelyn  ;  if  we  really  love  each  other, 
let  us  not  tempt  its  blasting  in  the  rude  storm  that  already  has 
begun  to  howl.  Let  us  shelter  it  from  the  unnatural  contest 
that  must  soon  rage  between  our  parties  ;  since  foes  we  must  be, 
let  us  be  such,  as  far  as  is  unavoidable  only.  This  I  must  iu 


270 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


candor  say,”  she  added  sadly,  “  had  I  been  aware  of  your  interv 
tion,  Evelyn,  to  take  up  arms  against  me  and  mine — against  the 
religion  that  gives  me  hopes  of  God,  and  the  king  that  gave  me 
hopes  of  liberty— never — truly  and  dearly  as  I  loved  you — never 
should  my  hand  have  been  yours.  Since,  in  my  ignorance,  I  have 
become  your  wife,  force  me  not  into  the  wretched,  half-trusting, 
half-devoted  intercourse  which,  if  we  at  present  meet,  must  ensue 
between  us.  The  battle  shall  soon  be  fought,  and,  one  way  or 
other,  decided.  Then,  whatever  is  the  result,  let  us  cling  to  each 
other  forever,  and  love  and  serve  each  other  undividedly.  That  is 
all  I  want — opportunity  from  circumstances,  and  permission  from 
Heaven  and  my  own  heart,  to  love  my  husband  as  a  wife  ought 
to  love.” 

“  These  reasons,  Eva,”  he  said,  considering  them,  as  well  as 
the  heated  language  in  which  they  were  expressed,  nothing  more 
than  the  hasty  feelings,  uttered  upon  impulse,  of  an  enthusiastic 
girl — “  these  reasons,  dearest  Eva,  might  have  weight,  provided 
it  was  to  follow,  as  an  inevitable  result  of  our  union,  that  we 
were  to  live  unhappily  together.  That  because  obliged  to  think 
differently  on  general  matters,  we  were  also  of  necessity  obliged 
to  think  differently  of  each  other.” 

“  I,  at  least,  Evelyn,  could  not  sufficiently  draw  the  distinc¬ 
tion — plainly  and  candidly  I  tell  you  I  could  not.  And  there 
are  other  reasons.  In  such  a  time  of  civil  discord  and  jeal¬ 
ousy,  each  party  will  be  watchful ;  each  will  exact  from  its 
friends  a  scrupulous  line  of  conduct,  the  overstepping  of  which 
must  be  followed  by  dishonor  or  death — ruin,  at  all  events,  in 
one  shape  or  other.  Both  of  us  will  necessarily  be  subjected  to 
this  nice  scrutiny.  Supposing  us  socially,  domestically  connected, 
how  could  we  hope  to  satisfy  it  ?  Would  not  your  friends  sus¬ 
pect  the  husband  of  a  Papist  ?  And  mine — my  father’s  and  my 
brother’s  friends — suspect  the  wife  of  a  Protestant,  and  through 
her,  the  dear  relations,  whose  heart’s  blood  might  be  spilt  in  con¬ 
sequence  ?  Evelyn,  you  may — for  you  can — command  me.  But 
oh  !  in  the  name  of  our  mutual  love  ;  in  the  name  of  honor,  na¬ 
ture,  and  delicacy — command  me  not  in  this — where  submission 
would  be  a  mockery  and  a  misery  ;  where  affection,  first  out¬ 
raged,  might  at  last  be  disgusted — where  man  forbids,  and  God 
would  seem  to  disapprove.” 

“Well,  Eva,”  he  answered,  at  last  touched,  if  not  convinced 
by  her  strange  earnestness,  “  be  it  so.  I  have  no  wish,  per¬ 
haps,  after  all,  no  right,  to  force  your  free  inclinations.  For  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


271 


gake  of  my  own  happiness,  dear  one,  I  will  not,  at  all  events, 
make  the  triai.  Let  us  live  as  strangers  to  each  other — except 
in  the  heart — until,  as  you  say,  we  can  meet  in  undivided  love. 
I  have  no  fears  of  you,  in  one  respect ;  no  doubts  of — ” 

“  Of  my  truth  ? — of  my  constancy  ?”  she  interrupted.  “  Do 
you  mean  that  V 7 

“  I  only  meant  to  say  I  did  not  fear  either.” 

“  Oh,  Evelyn,  why  glance  at  such  a  matter  ?  Why  start  it, 
even  in  thought  ?  I  hoped — I  believed  I  was  far  elevated 
above  suspicion — far  above  even  the  little  doubt  that  would 
prompt  you  to  tell  me  you  did  not  fear  me.  Oh,  you  know 
not  the  heart  of  woman,  such  as  it  beats  in  the  bosom  of  Eva 
M’Donnell! — you  know  not  its  deep,  tranquil  faith  and  loyalty 
where  duty  sanctifies  love! — when  the  word  of  God,  and  the 
hands  of  God’s  minister,  have  approved  and  blessed  the  en¬ 
thusiasm  of  affection!  Evelyn,  dear  Evelyn,  I  wish  you  had 
never  breathed  that  word.” 

“  Then,  dearest  Eva — Eva  Evelyn — not  Eva  M’Donnell — I 
wish  it  too;  and  never  shall  you  hear  it  repeated  But  there 
is  still  another  point  on  which  I  would  fain  receive  your  as¬ 
surances.  Just  now,  you  made  an  allusion  that  pained  and 
startled  me.  You  said  as  much  as  that  it  was  not  improbable 
you  should  take  some  personally  active  part  in  the  civil  com¬ 
motion  which  surrounds  us.  Gracious  Heaven!  Eva,  do  not 
suffer  me  to  entertain  any  such  shocking  apprehensions  as  that 
hasty  expression  must,  if  unexplained,  give  rise  to.  Do  not, 
dear  one,  permit  me  to  fear,  during  the  sad  period  of  our  sepa¬ 
ration,  that  you  are  disposed  to  place  yourself  in  personal  danger 
or  responsibility — to  do  aught,  in  fact,  forgetful  of  my  anxiety 
for  your  safety  and  honor — hear  me,  Eva — for  your  character 
as  a  woman,  a  lady,  and  a  wife.” 

“Fear  me  not,”  she  replied;  “should  we  both  outlive  this 
struggle — ” 

“  Dear  Eva,”  he  interrupted,  in  dismay,  “  again  your  indirect 
meaning  afflict*  aud  affrights  me  !  What,  supposing  you  to 
bear  yourself  as  a  delicate  though  zealous  woman  ought,  what 
can  be  the  possible  peril  to  you  ?  I,  indeed,  a  man  and  a  sol¬ 
dier,  destined  for  the  field — I  may  not  outlive  it — I  may  fall,  Eva 
— but  you!  what  can  you  purpose  or  think  of?” 

“  Still,  my  answer  is  the  same  I  was  just  about  to  give,  and 
will  be  found  sufficient  for  all  your  fears  and  questions.  Should 
we  both  meet,  I  say,  after  this  coming  strife — meet,  never  again 


272 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


to  sunder — I  will  not  ask  you  to  take  me  to  your  side,  if  there 
shall  appear,  in  my  conduct,  a  flaw  to  dishonor  or  displease 
you.  More,  Evelyn — I  will  not  cross  your  threshold,  to  sit  at 
your  board  or  hearth,  until  I  have  invited — demanded  your 
scrutiny.  Is  not  this  enough  ?  But,  Evelyn,  I  repeat,  over 
and  over — fear  me  not.  Fear  not — your  party  prejudices  of 
course  forgotten  in  the  investigation — fear  not  the  woman  who, 
while  she  is  called  on  to  befriend  her  unfortunate  country,  is 
also  called  on  to  support  the  character  of  your  wife.” 

Evelyn,  still  believing  that  Eva,  fired  and  agitated  by  reli¬ 
gious  and  patriotic  zeal,  either  conjured  up,  as  probable, 
circumstances  that  could  never  occur,  or  else  imagined  herself  of 
more  importance  than,  in  any  circumstances,  she  could  ever  be, 
professed  himself  contented  with  this  explanation. 

“  And  now,”  she  continued  “  let  us  attend  to  our  business 
here.  We  descended,  I  reckon,  to  look  out  for  a  boat,  by 
which  we  might  get  round  the  coast  to  some  landing-place  beyond 
Baliycastle.  But,”  looking  over  the  sea,  “  no  such  help  ap¬ 
pears.  Can  any  boat  have  passed  while  we  discoursed  together?” 

“  I  cannot  answer  yes  or  no.  In  truth,  my  Eva,  I  did  not 
sufficientlv  take  notice.” 

“Nor  I,  indeed,”  she  said, meeting  his  smile  with  one  as  fond 
“  Well,  then,  since  our  attendance  here  seems  useless,  we  should 
return  to  Edmund.”  She  moved  towards  the  chasm  by  which 
they  had  descended,  paused,  came  back  to  him,  and  said  : 

“  Farewell,  dear  Evelyn.  I  propose  to  make  our  adieus  here, 
because,  although  we  do  not  immediately  part,  yet  we  soon 
must;  and  then,  doubtless,  with  witnesses.  Farewell,  my  dear 
Evelyn — my  husband!”  the  girl  added,  as  she  yielded  to  his 
farewell  embrace.  “  I  ask  you  not  to  wish  me  success  till  our 
next  meeting;  but,  Evelyn,  should  I  return  to  you  with  it,  who 
then  shall  share  with  Eva  the  honorable  reward  of  success  ? 
It  may  be  that  defeat  and  confirmed  degradation,  shame,  and 
utter  poverty  shall  attend  my  coming  back;  if  so,  Evelyn — ” 
her  voice  faltered. 

“  If  so,  Eva,”  the  husband  said,  his  voice  sinking  to  a  whisper, 
as  he  continued  to  hold  her  to  his  breast,  “  then  will  it  be  my 
time  to  act,  as  it  is  now  my  time  to  speak.  But,  no;  why  need 
I  utter  it  ?  Farewell,  Eva.  I  am  now  ready  to  echo  your  fare¬ 
well.  God  bless  you,  my  wife.  Yes,  I  have  full  trust  in  you! 
Let  us  return  to  your  brother.” 

With  more  toil,  though  less  difficulty  than  they  had  descend- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


273 


ed,  Eva  and  Evelyn  gained  the  top  of  the  chasm,  upon  the 
edge  of  which  Edmund  was  still  seated. 

“  No  boat  ?”  he  asked,  as  they  approached. 

“No,”  replied  Eva;  “and  no  Gray  Man,  either.” 

Edmund  fixed  his  eyes,  inquiringly,  on  the  conscious  features 
of  his  sister  and  his  friend.  When  they  had  quite  gained  his 
side,  Eva  saved  him  further  questioning. 

“  Edmund,”  she  said,  her  hand  slipping  into  that  of  Evelyn, 
“  the  past  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  forgotten.” 

He  arose,  with  a  smile,  took  their  disengaged  hands,  and  re¬ 
peated — 

“  As  it  ought  to  be,  indeed.  But  for  the  immediate  future, 
sister  ?” 

“Protect  Eva,  Edmund,  till  we  meet  again:  for  she  will 
have  it  so,”  said  Evelyn.  “When  we  do  meet,  another  will  en¬ 
large  our  circle.” 

The  men  who  had  met  them  on  the  road  produced  some 
coarse,  but  very  welcome  refreshments,  and  nature  thus  recruited, 
they  awaited,  with  what  patience  they  might,  the  coming  of 
night.  The  day  wore  away,  and,  at  last,  evening  fell,  somewhat 
before  its  time,  on  account  of  the  dense  watery  clouds  that 
blinded  the  setting  sun.  In  the  first  twilight  the  men  were  dis¬ 
patched  to  reconnoitre,  once  more,  the  road  to  Ballycastle.  In 
their  absence,  Eva,  M’Donnell,  and  Evelyn  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  Gray  Man’s  Path  as  the  best  place  to  afford  them,  through 
its  downward  chasm,  a  sight  of  the  ocean,  and,  with  it,  a  view 
of  any  boat  that  might  be  passing. 

But  the  mists  that  gradually  swathed  the  waters,  soon  ren¬ 
dered  unnecessary  their  continued  watchfulness.  Their  situa¬ 
tion  only  served  to  afford  them  a  view  of  that  most  comfortless 
and  desolate  of  all  the  appearances  of  nature — the  mingling  of 
the  vapors  from  the  ocean  with  those  of  the  heavens,  until  the 
very  horizon-line  is  lost,  and  all  becomes  “  one  face”  of  shape¬ 
less  and  tintless  monotony. 

“  Who  would  think,”  asked  Edmund,  “  but  for  his  eternal 
voice,  grown  hoarse  in  calling  out,  that  the  furrowed  and  angry 
ocean  tossed  beneath  that  shroud  of  mist,  and  that  all  the  fair 
islands  and  land  we  this  morning  gazed  upon,  sleep  under  its 
shadow  ?” 

“And  who,”  demanded  Eva,  “as  the  white  vapor  comes,  curl¬ 
ing  up  this  chasm,  would  suppose  that  the  Gray  Man  had  so 
steep  a  path  for  his  walk,  as  we  know  it  to  be  ?  Look,  the 

12* 


274 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


view  down  is  already  more  than  half  interrupted  :  and  up,  ujv 
still  rolls  the  mist.” 

“A  proper  evening  for  his  appearance,”  observed  Evelyn. 

“  Most  proper.  How  fitly  would  he  appear,  emerging  from 
that  abyss  of  vapor,  and  toiling  among  the  rocky  fragments, 
towards  us !  But  see  !  has  not  yon  gray  stone  moved  ?” 

“  No,”  said  Edmund  ;  yet  look  closer.” 

All  did,  indeed,  glance  more  attentively  down  the  chasm,  and 
beheld  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  protruded  through  the 
body  of  mist.  It  was,  however,  only  vaguely  recognizable,  on 
account  of  the  evening  shadows,  and  of  the  thinner  portions  of 
exhalation  that  skirted  the  principal  mass,  and  which,  floating 
between  them  and  him,  gave  but  a  dreamy  indication  of  form 
and  feature.  So  far  as  the  spectators  could  discern,  however,  the 
face  was  aged  and  the  hair  gray.  The  apparition  stood  still  but 
for  an  instant,  as  if  regarding  them,  and  then  sank  back  into 
obscurity.  Edmund  started  to  his  feet,  and  began  to  descend 
the  chasm. 

“Do  not  throw  away  your  life,”  cried  Eva,  detaining  him; 
“  you  shall  not  venture  down.” 

“I  will,  sister,  and  instantly.  Who  now  allows  supernatural 
fears  to  terrify  them  ?” 

“  Not  I,  Edmund — I  fear  no  spectre  here  so  much  as  living 
men  disposed  to  do  you  harm.” 

“Tush,  Eva,  am  I  a  child,  to  be  swallowed  in  a  mouthful? 
Pray  release  me.” 

“  Then  you  go  not  alone,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  No,”  cried  Eva,  “  we  shall  both  accompany  him.” 

“  Sister — Evelyn — stay  where  you  are — this  is  my  adventure, 
and  mine  only.  Be  seated,  I  entreat.  If  I  require  help,  I 
shall  give  you  notice  by  firing  one  of  these  pistols — farewell.” 

He  rapidly  clambered  down  the  path,  soon  entered  the  mist, 
and  was  lost  in  it. 

“  Though,  as  I  have  said,  I  feared  no  ghost  or  demon,  on  his 
account,”  continued  Eva,  “yet  do  I  now  feel  a  superstitious  hor¬ 
ror  at  seeing  him  swallowed  up  from  our  sight  in  the  silence  and 
mystery  of  that  cloud  of  vapor,  to  confront,  singly,  whatever 
peril  may  await  him  within  its  void.” 

“  We — I  have  done  wrong  in  remaining  inactive,  notwith¬ 
standing  his  entreaties,”  said  Evelyn.  “  Do  you  fear  to  rest  here 
while  I  follow  him  ?” 

“  I  should  not  fear  ;  but  *tis  better  not  to  follow  him.  I 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


275 


must,  for  the  first  time,  acquaint  you,  dear  Evelyn,  that  the 
spirit  of  Edmund  has  of  late  years  changed,  from  that  of  a  youth 
of,  mayhap,  too  great  gentleness  and  bashfulness,  into  a  sharp 
and  wayward  manhood.  From  me,  who,  when  we  were  boy  and 
girl  together,  could  call  him  to  me  like  my  pet  doe,  he  will  now 
scarce  brook  even  slight  contradiction.  Although,  indeed,  his 
manner  is  not  directly  hurtful  or  unkind,  and  though  I  know  he 
still  loves  me  well.  Therefore,  I  join  my  entreaties  to  his,  that 
you  stay  where  you  are,  and  not  give  cause  for  any  unseemly 
contest  between  us,  by  thwarting  what  appears  to  be  his  fixed 
purpose.  Let  us  sit  here,  patieutly  if  we  can,  and  pray  for  his 
speedy  and  safe  return.” 

“  As  you  please,  then.  But,  Eva,  I  have  myself  observed  the 
change  of  character  you  speak  of,  and  wondered  whether  it  was 
a  mature  show  of  nature,  or  caused  by  the  sudden  and  stern 
change  of  the  times.  I  have  heard  you  speak  of  two  other  broth¬ 
ers  ;  one,  who  died  in  youth,  much  your  elder  ;  another,  who 
went  for  his  education  to  Spain,  almost  your  own  age,  and, 
withal,  very  like  you.  Does  Edmund  resemble  in  spirit  either  of 
these  ?” 

“  The  first,  not  at  all,”  she  replied  ;  “  my  elder  brother, 
Donald,  was,  as  I  recollect,  only  remarkable  for  good-nature, 
good-humor,  and  love  of  ladies.  My  younger,  James” — tears 
filled  her  eyes — “  had  much,  I  believe,  even  since  his  childood,  of 
the  fiery  temper  only  lately  shown  by  Edmund.  Mayhap,  as 
Edmund  has  changed  from  gentle  to  bold,  James,  during  the 
long  period  he  had  been  absent,  might  have  changed  from  bold 
to  gentle.  But  ’tis  no  matter  now.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  Does  that  younger  brother  soon  visit 
Ireland  ?” 

“  Alas,  alas — spoke  I  not  of  him  as  of  a  brother  that  has 
been  ?  Our  last  accounts  of  him  told  us  he  had  died  of  a  malig¬ 
nant  fever.” 

Evelyn,  who  had  proposed  his  questions  chiefly  for  the  purpose 
of  diverting  Eva’s  attention  from  Edmund’s  absence,  now  found 
it  impossible  to  continue  the  discourse.  Both  became  silent, 
gazing  down  the  rocky  chasm  upon  the  wreaths  of  mist  which 
choked  it,  and  conjuring,  out  of  every  motion  of  the  vapor,  the 
figure  of  Edmund,  or  of  some  more  unwelcome  visitant. 

A  considerable  time  thus  elapsed.  The  shades  of  night  fell 
thicker  ;  the  throat  of  the  chasm  filled,  more  and  more,  with 
vapor  and  darkness.  And  still  he  came  not.  Eva’s  fears  grew 


276 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ungovernable.  She  and  Evelyn  prepared  to  plunge  down  the 
path,  when,  at  last,  a  human  form  appeared  struggling  through 
the  dense  medium,  in  motion  towards  them.  The  first  glance 
determined  no  shape,  and  Eva’s  worst  terrors  nearly  overpowered 
her — she  thought  they  were  approached  by  her  brother’s  mur¬ 
derer.  But  a  little  pause  reassured  her  ;  it  was  her  brother’s  self. 

Slowly  and  silently,  and  with  a  manner  very  different  from 
that  he  had  worn  at  his  departure,  did  Edmund  now  gain  the 
verge  of  the  chasm,  and  sit  down  by  their  side.  He  was  pale 
and  agitated,  but  that  might  have  been  from  toil ;  his  hair  and 
clothes  were  damp,  too,  with  the  mist.  They  paused  till  he 
should  speak  ;  but  he  continued  silent  and  thoughtful. 

“  What  is  this,  Edmund  ?”  at  last  asked  Eva  ;  “  has  any  real 
injury  happened  to  you  ?  Was  that  person  an  enemy  ? — a  spy, 
perhaps  ?” 

“  Dear  Eva,”  he  answered,  “  ask  me  no  questions  about  this 
matter.  I  have  met  neither  foe  nor  spy  ;  let  so  much  content 
you,  for  the  present,  at  least.  But  I  have  other  intelligence.  A 
small  galiot  has  just  moored  below.  I  have  spoken  to  her  peo¬ 
ple,  and  they  consent,  thank  God  !  to  take  us,  on  the  turn  of 
the  tide,  which  is  near  at  hand,  round  the  coast,  as  far  as  Bal- 
lintoy.  We  shall  thus,  in  all  likelihood,  escape  our  present  foes  ; 
and  Evelyn  will  be  free  to  continue  his  northwest  journey.  Let 
us  descend  at  once  ;  the  galiot  expects  us. 

At  the  same  moment  the  two  scouts  reappeared,  with  assu¬ 
rances  that  all  the  passes  at  their  present  side  of  Knocklaide 
were  still  beset.  No  delay  was  then  made  in  once  more  braving, 
even  amid  the  extreme  perils  that  the  night  flung  over  it,  the 
descent  of  the  Gray  Man’s  Path.  The  men  attended  them, — 
abandoning,  in  their  urgency,  the  horses  that  had  conveyed  them 
to  Fair-Head.  After  many  pauses,  and  many  dangers  and  es¬ 
capes,  about  half  an  hour  brought  the  whole  party  to  the  base  of 
the  precipice. 

Here  Edmund  gave  a  hail,  and  was  answered  by  near  voices 
from  a  little  sandy  cove — the  only  safe  one  on  that  point  of  the 
coast.  As  all  advanced,  four  men  were  dimly  seen  through  the 
mist,  standing  up  in  a  boat.  Our  friends  and  their  attendants 
got  in,  and  were  instantly  rowed,  they  knew  not  where,  outward 
through  the  vapor  of  the  ocean.  A  hazy  light  at  last  shone 
ahead,  and  they  gained  and  were  hoisted  into  a  small,  dingy 
vessel,  whose  sole  recommendation,  to  the  experienced  eye,  was 
that  she  seemed  built  and  rigged  for  quick  sailing. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


277 


The  crew  were  a  set  of  rude,  boisterous  fellows,  having*  for 
captain,  or  commander,  a  man  scarce  more  respectable,  in  ap¬ 
pearance  or  demeanor,  than  themselves.  On  the  fore  part  of  the 
deck,  other  men,  rolled  up  in  cloaks,  coverlids,  and  sacks,  slept, 
or  appeared  to  sleep,  evidently  no  part  of  the  crew.  Evelyn,  see¬ 
ing  one  of  their  faces  by  the  gleam  of  a  lantern,  thought  he  should 
know  it,  but  wisely  said  nothing.  From  the  cabin,  which  was 
interdicted  to  the  chance  passengers,  he  heard  a  voice,  which  was 
also  familiar  to  him  ;  still  he  said  nothing.  Glancing  into  the 
hold,  and  along  a  goodly  range  of  casks  which  were  lashed  on 
deck,  he  finally  thought  he  could  guess  at  the  nature  of  the  car¬ 
go  on  board  ;  but,  still,  he  was  prudently  silent. 

The  tide  turned.  The  breeze  was  fair;  the  anchor  was 
heaved  ;  and  the  galiot,  standing  out  to  sea,  soon  doubled  the 
Fair-Head.  Passing  close  by  the  island  of  Rathlin,  where  she 
had  to  contend  with  a  heavy  surf,  she  emerged  into  what  may 
be  regarded  as  the  confluence  of  the  great  western  and  northern 
oceans  ; — no  broad  land,  after  an  hour’s  tacking  between  her 
and  the  unknown  pole. 

Ere  break  of  day  she  stood  off  the  little  seashore  hamlet  of 
Ballintoy,  and,  anchoring  in  its  safe  and  good  bay,  lowered  a 
boat  for  our  friends  to  gain  the  shore.  As  Evelyu  prepared  to 
get  into  the  boat,  he  offered  the  captain  money,  which,  to  his  sur¬ 
prise,  was  refused.  The  boat  put  off ;  and,  after  half  an  hour’s 
rowing,  the  fugitives  landed  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  on  the 
edge  of  a  village,  where  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  single  soul 
awake  to  receive  or  direct  them.  But,  tempted  by  a  fee,  the 
men  who  had  rowed  them  from  the  vessel,  engaged  to  knock  up 
the  inmates  of  a  house  they  well  knew,  and  from  whom  refresh¬ 
ments,  horses,  and  guidance  might  be  obtained.  Accordingly, 
our  party  accompanied  them  up  the  straggling  street  of  the  vil¬ 
lage.  After  a  noise,  sufficient  to  awake  the  dead,  the  doors  of  a 
mud-cabin  were  thrown  open,  and  men,  women,  and  children  ap¬ 
peared  half-dressed  within,  ready  to  afford  any  accommodation 
in  their  power. 

This,  indeed,  was  not  much,  nor  of  a  superior  kind.  But,  aa 
three  horses  and  a  guide  could  be  obtained,  the  travellers  were 
satisfied.  In  less  than  an  hour,  Eva,  Evelyn,  and  Edmund,  fol 
lowed  on  foot  by  the  men,  rode,  at  an  easy  pace,  towards  Cole 

rain  e. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


*7S 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Within  a  few  miles  of  Coleraine,  the  friends  were  about  to 
part ; — M’Donnell  to  proceed  towards  the  house  of  a  Protestant 
relative,  where  he  purposed  to  remain  till  his  late  seeming  errors 
might  be  explained  to  Lord  Autrim  ;  Eva,  with  him,  in  order  to 
obtain  some  rest  previous  to  her  return  to  her  father  and  Evelyn, 
through  Coleraine,  to  Derry.  But  here  a  new  interruption 
changed,  in  some  degree,  their  plans  and  destinations. 

A  party  of  horse,  headed  by  Lord  Mount  Alexander,  came  up 
with  them  from  Coleraine.  The  nobleman  and  Evelyn  recog¬ 
nized  each  other,  and  exchanged  greetings.  Edmund  was  then 
noticed,  and  desired  to  account  for  himself.  Interrupting  his 
friend,  he  told,  bluntly,  his  name,  and  his  political  and  military 
situation  :  he  was  instantly  placed  under  arrest.  Evelyn  warm¬ 
ly  pleaded  for  him  ;  but  Lord  Alexander  would  not  hear  of  his 
being  set  at  large  ;  conceding,  however,  to  the  entreaties  of  Eve¬ 
lyn,  that  M’Donnell  might  remain  as  his  prisoner,  only  giving  his 
parole  not  to  attempt  an  escape.  Eva,  who,  boiling  with  indig¬ 
nation,  had  silently  witnessed  these  arrangements,  was  permitted 
to  dispose  of  herself  as  she  pleased.  The  gallant  commander 
even  offered  two  of  his  men  to  protect  her.  But  the  attendance 
of  the  scouts,  now  mounted  on  the  horses  Edmund  and  Evelyn  had 
ridden  from  Ballintoy,  enabled  her  safely  to  decline  the  favor. 

“  My  own  people  will  prove  sufficient,  my  lord,”  she  said. 
“  Edmund,  farewell.  I  rest  a  few  hours  at  our  friend’s  house  ; 
then  home,  to  comfort  our  father,  and  to  use  my  influence  with 
our  angry  cousin.  Farewell,  Evelyn.  This,”  she  whispered, 
“  this,  in  any  case,  shall  be  our  last  parting.” 

She  turned  off  with  the  two  men  ;  and  her  brother  and  hus¬ 
band  faced  towards  Coleraine,  along  with  Lord  Mount  Alexander 
and  his  troop. 

“  As  yet,”  said  this  nobleman  to  Evelyn,  as  they  rode  side  by 
side,  “we  have  fared  badly.  Those  two  affairs  at  Dromore  and 
Hillsborough  were  very  unfortunate  ;  Sir  Arthur  Rawdon  and  I 
have  saved  or  kept  together  but  four  thousand  of  our  whole 
army.  A  few  weeks  ago  the  nine  counties  of  Ulster,  and  one  in 
Connaught,  were  held  for  William  and  Mary.  Since  then,  we 
have  been  beaten  out  of  Down,  Antrim,  Armagh,  Monaghan, 
Donegal,  Cavan,  and  nearly  Tyrone  ;  the  counties  of  Londonderry 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


279 


and  Fermanagh,  and  a  few  places  on  the  banks  of  the  Finn,  in 
Tyrone,  being  our  whole  present  possessions  in  Ulster.  And 
these,  too,  I  fear,  we  shall  soon  lose — the  counties  at  least. 
Derry  county  must  quickly  be  overrun,  from  Donegal  at  the  one 
side,  Antrim  at  the  other,  and  Tyrone  at  the  south.  The  undis¬ 
ciplined  Irish  have  done  more  than  we  expected  :  it  is  quick  work 
during  one  month.” 

Alarmed,  by  these  accounts,  for  Esther’s  safety  in  Derry,  Eve¬ 
lyn  expressed  his  wishes  to  be  allowed  immediately  to  repair 
thither.  But  his  commander  overruled  him  ;  stating,  in  the 
first  place,  that  Derry  could  experience  no  distress  till  they  had 
reached  it ;  in  the  second,  that  Evelyn’s  services  would  be  ne¬ 
cessary  in  Coleraine.  Coleraine  gained,  Lord  Mount  Alexander 
at  once  engaged  him  in  business  of  a  nature  so  urgent,  that  it 
scarce  allowed  him  any  conversation  with  his  nominal  prisoner, 
Edmund,  although  the  young  men  shared  the  same  quarters  and 
the  same  board. 

Some  time  thus  elapsed.  At  a  late  hour,  on  a  particular  night, 
as  Evelyn  and  other  officers  sat  in  conference  with  Lord  Mount 
Alexander,  an  uproar  was  heard  in  the  town.  Soon  after,  three 
or  four  military  gentlemen,  pale  with  fatigue  and  emotion,  broke 
into  the  room.  “  Sir  Arthur  Rawdon  !”  cried  his  lordship,  start¬ 
ing  up,  “  Colonel  Edmonston — Major  Michelburne — The  Bann 
is  forced  ?” 

They  answered  that  it  was  ;  that  they  had  been  attacked  in 
their  intrenchments  by  Gordon  O’Neile,  and  routed  at  every 
point  •  that  the  pass  of  Portglenore  had  proved  particularly 
fatal ;  and  that  the  enemy  was  in  rapid  advance. 

“Ulster,  then,  has  but  one  stronghold  left — Derry!  We 

must  quickly  throw  ourselves  into  it.” 

“  That,  indeed,  is  our  only  course,”  said  Sir  Arthur  Rawdon. 
u  Yet,  do  not  call  Derry  our  last  dependence.  The  Finn  and 
Foyle  are  still  guarded  by  Walker,  Colonel  Mervin,  and  others, 
and  a  good  stand  there  may  yet  serve  us.  I  have  already  or¬ 
dered  my  dragoons,  by  the  most  direct  road,  to  Derry  ;  Skiving- 
ton  and  Caning,  their  foot.  Whitney’s  and  Edmonston’s  men 
are  iu  Coleraine,  to  assist  yourself  in  a  defence  ;  but  this  is  not 
now  possible.” 

By  the  9th  of  April,  all  the  retreating  forces  had  appeared 
before  Derry,  and  had  been  severally  ordered  to  repair  to  the 
passes  on  the  Finn  and  the  Foyle,  by  Lundy,  the  governor  of  the 
city,  now  confirmed  in  his  appointment,  iu  consequence  of  advices 


280 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


received  from  King  William.  At  the  instance  of  his  considerate 
colonel,  Evelyn  was  permitted  to  join  his  sister  within  the  walls, 
his  prisoner,  Edmund,  still  attending  him. 

After  providing  quarters  for  M’Donnell,  and  paying  a  visit  to 
his  sister,  Evelyn  could  not  remain  inattentive  to  the  uproar 
around  him.  Numbers  of  people  of  every  rank  were  hastening 
to  quit  the  beleaguered  city,  and  seek  refuge  in  Scotland  or  Eng¬ 
land.  Those  who  remained  had  no  trust  in  their  governor,  no 
hopes  of  opposing  a  hitherto  triumphant  enemy.  The  suburbs 
were  fired,  however,  the  neighborhood  swept  clear  of  provisions, 
and  every  step  taken  that  haste  could  take,  to  provide  for  a  siege. 

In  the  midst  of  the  panic,  the  enemy  appeared  at  the  water¬ 
side  ;  but  after  making  a  show  of  crossing,  marched  off  along 
the  opposite  banks  of  the  Foyle,  towards  the  passes  of  Lifford 
and  Clady  Ford,  where  the  Finn  and  the  Foyle  were  fordable, 
and  where  they  had  been  expected.  Increased  consternation  at¬ 
tended  this  movement,  which  was  plainly  observable  from  the 
walls  of  the  city  ;  but  some  Derry  energy  was  also  shown.  At 
a  hasty  and  scant  council  it  was  resolved,  that,  by  the  day  the 
enemy  were  expected  to  attempt  these  passes,  “  all  officers  and 
soldiers,  horse  and  foot,  and  all  other  armed  men  whatsoever, 
that  could  or  would  fight  for  their  country  against  Popery,”  should, 
in  addition  to  the  considerable  force  already  on  the  ground, 
“  appear  near  Clady  Ford,  Lifford,  and  Long  Causeway,”  the 
latter  place  within  a  short  distance  of  Derry,  “  and  then  and 
there  be  ready  to  oppose  the  enemy,  and  preserve  life,  and  all 
that  is  dear,  from  them.”  At  this  council,  Lundy,  though  so  much 
suspected,  was  chosen  commander-in-chief,  the  doubts  of  him 
originating  in  his  refusal  to  send  assistance  to  Coleraine,  but  mainly 
caused  by  the  bitterness  of  failure  on  every  side,  not  weighing, 
after  all,  against  the  high  opinion  of  his  military  zeal  and  talents, 
which  were  supposed  to  render  him  a  match  for  Hamilton  himself. 

A  little  confidence  now  seemed  to  spring  up.  It  was  known 
that  the  advancing  foe  did  not  exceed  seven  thousand  men,  while 
the  Ulster  Protestants  could  still  oppose  them,  one  way  or  an¬ 
other,  with  double  that  number.  And  when,  at  the  head  of  a 
re-enforcement  of  ten  thousand,  Lundy  marched  to  join  the  forces 
already  on  the  appointed  ground,  good  results  were  fully  antici¬ 
pated  by  the  remaining  population  of  Derry. 

Soon  after  his  departure,  another  circumstance  increased  their 
hopes.  Two  well-disciplined  English  regiments  arrived  in  Lough 
Foyle,  together  with  some  arms  and  provisions  for  the  relief  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


281 


Derry  ;  and  one  of  the  commanding  officers  addressed  a  letter  to 
Lundy  requesting  his  advice,  but,  at  the  same  time,  offering  some 
of  his  own,  which,  from  the  posture  of  affairs,  it  was  impossible 
could,  at  so  late  a  period,  be  adopted.  At  all  events,  as  the 
governor  was  not  at  hand,  the  letter  remained  unanswered  till 
his  return. 

And  for  that  return,  all  who  remained  behind  him  in  the  city 
waited,  in  the  greatest  anxiety  and  trepidation.  Upon  the  tid¬ 
ings  he  should  bring  home,  seemed  to  depend  their  properties, 
liberties,  and  lives.  The  day  passed  in  painful  and  almost  word¬ 
less  suspense.  Evening  came,  and  still  no  courier  from  the  field 
of  battle  ;  still  no  triumphant  governor  to  announce  success  and 
safety.  At  last,  late  in  the  night,  Lundy,  accompanied  by  his 
scarce  diminished  force,  hastily  re-entered  the  gates.  Every  post, 
every  pass  had  been  lost,  and  all  who  defended  them  had  fled 
from  the  face  of  a  still  irresistible  though  very  inferior  enemy. 
In  fact,  it  appeared  that  the  governor’s  re-enforcement  did  not 
strike  a  blow  ;  but,  after  Hamilton’s  men  had  carried  the  most 
important  point,  retreated  at  once  before  them.  Louder  than 
ever  was  he  now  charged  with  determined  treachery,  and  by  the 
very  men  who  suspected  him  before  they  marched  to  the  field 
under  his  command,  and  who,  at  his  first  word,  had  really  fled 
home  with  him.  However  that  question  may  be  decided,  the 
day  was  lost,  and  Derry  left  without  a  protection,  save  her  walls 
and  her  garrison. 

The  first  order  issued  by  the  governor  on  his  arrival  was  to 
shut  the  gates,  and  on  no  account,  and  to  no  person,  to  open 
them.  This  was  obeyed,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  such  portions 
of  the  force  stationed  on  the  Finn  and  Foyle,  as  had  not  entered 
along  with  Lundy,  and  who,  from  time  to  time,  during  the  night, 
arrived  in  confusion  under  the  walls,  vainly  craving  admission. 
With  them  came  crowds  of  the  country  people,  of  both  sexes, 
screaming  for  shelter  and  protection.  They  were  answered  by 
the  cries  of  the  fear-stricken  citizens  within,  and  the  scene  be¬ 
came  so  terribly  exciting,  that  Evelyn  could  not  remain  a  moment 
off  the  walls,  which  gave  an  uninterrupted  view  of  it. 

At  an  advanced  hour  of  the  night,  a  new  body  of  fugitives, 
horse-soldiers,  galloped  furiously  up,  headed  by  a  man  whose 
person  and  bearing  Evelyn  thought  he  recognized.  Arrived  at 
the  nearest  gate,  their  leader  dismounted,  and,  in  a  commanding 
voice,  asked  for  admission.  In  obedience  to  the  general  order,  a 
sentinel  inside  refused  his  demand,  and  the  challenger  exclaimed  : 


282 


THE  BOYNE  TTATER. 


“  What !  abandoned  in  the  field,  and  now  shut  out  of  the  city  ! 
Is  it  thus  your  governor  orders  it  ?  Hear  this,  brave  and  un¬ 
happy  men — gallant  and  betrayed  friends  !  Vainly  have  we 
sought  safety  even  in  the  confusion  of  flight — for  here  are  we 
still  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  merciless.” 

“  Mr.  Walker’s  voice  ?”  inquired  Evelyn,  stooping  across  the 
low  range  of  outside  wall,  over  the  terra-plane. 

“  I  am  George  Walker — who  asks  ?”  at  once  replied  and  que¬ 
ried  the  reverend  captain,  turning  up  his  face,  which  the  light  of 
some  torches,  used  in  preparing  the  cannon  on  the  walls,  showed 
to  be  unusually  haggard  and  agitated. 

“A  friend — Robert  Evelyn,”  he  was  answered.  “Have  you 
been  engaged  in  this  affair,  Mr.  Walker?” 

“  In  bitterness  do  I  say,  yes,  Master  Evelyn.  Having  vainly 
urged  your  governor  to  re-enforce  us  yesterday,  I  returned  to  Lif¬ 
ford,  and  joined  Colonel  Crofton  ;  the  enemy  came  to  Clady 
Ford  ;  all  night  long  the  enemy  and  we  fired  at  one  another  ; 
and  this  morning  I  took  my  post  at  the  Long  Causeway,  from 
whence  my  men  and  I  were  the  last  to  retreat.  Now,  after 
having  often  been  sorely  beset  on  the  way,  we  crave  a  night’s 
shelter  in  the  city,  on  whose  account  we  have  fought  and  bled, 
and  it  refuses  us  a  roof,  a  crust,  or  a  cup  of  water.” 

“I  will  repair  to  the  governor,  and  demand  admittance  for 
you,  sir,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  Do  so — and,  to  urge  his  compliance,  tell  him  I  have  news 
for  the  city — terrible  news,”  cried  Walker. 

Evelyn  accordingly  repaired  to  Lundy’s  house  ;  was  permitted 
to  see  the  governor  ;  but  returned  to  the  walls  with  this  sole 
answer — That,  as  there  was  not  provision  enough  in  the  town 
for  those  who  already  occupied  it,  he  could  not,  consistently  with 
his  duty,  admit  any  more  useless  mouths. 

“  Well,”  said  Mr.  Walker,  “patience.  Let  the  governor  play 
out  his  own  part.  We  may  do  better  by  looking  on.” 

The  night  lapsed  while  the  fugitives  still  remained  outside  the 
walls.  At  early  daybreak,  the  two  English  officers  who  had 
arrived  with  their  regiments  the  day  before,  approached  the  city, 
by  orders  of  the  governor,  to  attend  a  council.  As  the  draw¬ 
bridge,  outside  the  gate,  and  lastly  the  gate  itself,  were  lowered 
and  opened  for  their  admission,  Walker  hastily  whispered  his 
men ;  and  when  the  officers  were  proceeding  in — 

“Charge,  soldiers  1”  he  exclaimed  ;  and,  followed  by  horse  and 
foot,  gained  the  gate.  The  sentinel  on  duty  presented  his  piece. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


283 


bat  Walker  struck  it  out  of  his  bauds,  and  he  and  all  his  frienda 
entered  Derry. 

“  Citizens  1”  he  then  cried,  in  a  solemn  voice,  as,  at  the  head 
of  his  defeated  regiment,  he  rode  slowly  up  the  street — “  Protest¬ 
ant  citizens  of  Derry  1 — To-morrow  morning  the  tyrant  will  be 
at  Johnstown,  only  five  miles  from  your  walls.  His  Papist  rab¬ 
ble  there  await  him.  Proclaim  this  news.  Run  from  street  to 
street,  from  house  to  house,  and  tell  it.  Prepare  each  other  for 
the  fate  that  must  follow  submission  to  enemies,  who,  after  what 
you  have  already  done,  can  never  forgive  you.  Prepare  your 
wives  and  daughters  for  the  shame  and  misery  to  which  the  deaths 
of  their  natural  protectors  must  expose  them.  The  destroyers 
are  at  hand — even  the  ruthless  and  perfidious  Galmoy  is  with 
them.  They  come,  they  come  !”  he  continued,  in  accents  of  alarm 
and  lamentation,  waving  his  sword  round  his  head. 

The  groans  of  men,  the  screams  of  women  and  children  arose 
as  he  passed  along,  from  the  street,  the  doors,  and  the  windows, 
to  which  his  address  had  attracted  them.  Many  voices,  inspired 
by  the  courage  that  desperation  gives,  were  uplifted  in  exclama¬ 
tions  of  resistance. 

“This  is  good,”  resumed  Walker,  to  Evelyn,  who  had  joined 
him  ;  “  the  thought  of  having  no  alternative  but  resistance,  may 
supply  the  want  of  cool  determination.  Death  on  their  walls 
must  appear  preferable  to  death  at  the  hands  of  the  tyrant. 
Could  we  but  support  such  a  feeling,  we,  the  heads  and  movers 
of  this  struggle,  may  yet  be  saved  from  the  terrible  vengeance  of 
the  bigot  James  and  his  blood-thirsty  advisers.  The  councils  of 
our  governor,  too,  may  be  counteracted.  Let  us  watch  their 
present  result.” 

“  But  is  King  James  indeed  so  implacable  and  cruel  ?”  asked 
Evelyn.  “  Is  it  indeed  so  sure  that  we  must  expect  no  safe  and 
honorable  capitulation  ?  Why  not  await,  at  all  events,  his — ” 

“  Hush  1”  interrupted  Walker,  sternly;  “name  not  that — 
whisper  it  not — or  else  stand  accountable  to  God  for  the  com¬ 
pounding  of  his  cause,  and  for  the  blood  of  his  zealous  soldiers 
•Silence,  young  man,  and  let  us  watch  the  council,  I  say.” 

The  two  English  officers  here  passed  down  the  street  towards 
the  gates. 

“  I  read  it  on  their  foreheads,”  continued  Mr.  Walker  ;  “  they 
have  withdrawn  from  us  in  our  sore  need.” 

The  town  clerk,  who  was  knowu  to  him,  approached  from  the 
governor's  house. 


284 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  The  council  have  broken  up  ?”  asked  the  clergyman  of  tills 
person. 

“  They  have,  sir,”  answered  the  town  clerk  ;  “  and  I  was  the 
only  member  of  it  who  opposed  that  resolution,”  handing  a  paper 

Walker  snatched  the  document,  and,  as  his  eye  glanced  over 
it,  anger  and  impatience  violently  agitated  his  features.  At 
length,  however,  Evelyn  could  observe  a  change.  He  paused  ; 
turned  his  eyes  sideways  to  the  ground  :  in  the  gradual  compres¬ 
sion  of  his  lips,  and  the  slight  elevation  of  his  eyebrows,  the 
hope  of  an  ultimate  triumph  was  indicated. 

“  Be  prudent,  sir,  on  my  account,”  continued  the  town  clerk. 
“  The  council  holds  its  vote  secret  for  the  present ;  and  I  should 
not  be  safe,  were  it  known  I  disregarded  its  order.” 

“  Fear  not,”  answered  Mr.  Walker  ;  “I  shall  keep  your  con¬ 
fidence.  Rejoiced  I  am,”  he  continued,  turning  to  Evelyn,  as 
the  discreet  town  officer  retired,  “  that  there  is  a  necessity  so  to 
do.  The  governor  has  served  us  by  this  vote  ;  but  tenfold  is  the 
service  to  be  drawn  from  his  close  councils.  Read  the  paper.” 

Evelyn  read  aloud,  as  follows  : 

“  Upon  inquiry,  it  appears  that  there  is  not  provision  in  the 
garrison  of  Londonderry  for  the  present  garrison  and  the  two 
regiments  on  board,  for  above  a  week  or  ten  days,  at  most.  And 
it  appearing  that  the  place  is  not  tenable  against  a  well-appointed 
army — ” 

“Well-appointed!”  interrupted  Walker,  “except  the  handful 
of  French,  they  are  more  than  half  rabble,  with  pikes,  scythes, 
and  bludgeons.  James,  himself,  was  sickened  at  the  first  sight 
of  them.” 

“Therefore,  it  is  concluded  upon  and  resolved,”  continued 
Evelyn,  reading,  “  that  it  is  not  convenient  for  his  majesty’s  ser¬ 
vice,  but  the  contrary,  to  land  the  two  regiments,  under  Colonel 
Cunningham  and  Colonel  Richards,  their  commanders,  now  on 
board,  in  the  river  of  Lough  Foyle.  That,  considering  the  present 
circumstances  of  affairs,  and  the  likelihood  the  enemy  will  soon 
oossess  themselves  of  this  place,  it  is  thought  most  convenient 
that  the  principal  officers  shall  privately  withdraw  themselves,  as 
well  for  their  own  preservation,  as  in  hopes  that  the  inhabitants, 
by  a  timely  capitulation,  may  make  terms  the  better  with  the 
enemy.” 

“Read  you  not  treason  and  treachery  there  ?”  asked  Walker. 

“  Whatever  may  be  Lundy’s  secret  sentiments,”  answered  Eve¬ 
lyn,  “  I  cannot  suppose  that  my  Lord  Blaney,  and  the  two  Eng 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


285 


lish  colonels,  who,  along  with  him,  and  a  dozen  other  gentlemen, 
have  signed  this  resolution,  are  traitors.” 

“  But  must  it  not  appear  so,  to-morrow  or  after,  when,  with 
proper  address,  their  vote  shall  become  known  to  the  people  ? 
Or  may  not  the  governor  have  imposed,  by  false  accounts,  on 
them  all  ?  Let  us  watch  him,  I  say.  Give  me  the  paper — haste, 
haste  I” — as  many  of  those  who  had  signed  the  order  of  council, 
together  with  Sir  Arthur  Rawdon,  and  other  officers  of  import¬ 
ance,  approached,  on  them  way  to  the  gates. 

“  Let  them  go,”  resumed  Mr.  Walker,  when  they  had  passed, 
“  mayhap  all  this  is  better  still.  Hold,  here  comes  another  crowd 
— shall  we  avoid  them  ?”  He  turned  towards  the  walls,  and  was 
accompanied  by  Evelyn,  as,  in  addition  to  those  who  had,  some 
days  before,  abandoned  the  city,  a  number  of  inhabitants,  with 
some  clergymen,  passed  to  the  water-side. 

“Ay,  let  them  go,”  continued  Mr.  Walker,  “let  none  stay 
here  who  do  not  resolve  to  die  amid  the  ruins  and  rubbish  of 
this  last  Protestant  fortress,  rather  than  yield  to  the  false  prom¬ 
ise  of  a  Popish  tyrant.  And  let  our  governor  continue  his  policy, 
too  :  let  him  step  deeper  and  deeper,  into  the  quagmire  that,  at 
last,  and  soon,  shall  swallow  him  I  tell  you,  Robert  Evelyn,  we 
have  no  hope  of  life  itself,  but  in  the  holding  out  of  this  place. 
If  it  can  be  held  until  proper  succors  come  from  England,  William 
may  still  wear  his  triple  crown.” 

“But  pardon  me,  Mr.  Walker,  if,  even  for  William’s  sake,  I 
see  no  reason  at  your  side,  in  this  desperate  and  hopeless  resist¬ 
ance.  Shall  we  madly  sacrifice  our  lives  to  his  interests  who  will 
not  protect  ours  ?  You  talk  of  English  succor,  at  his  hands  : 
why  has  it  not  already  come  ?  Why  not  long  ago  ?  So  early 
as  December  and  January  he  had  advice  of  the  voluntary  peril 
incurred  here,  by  taking  up  arms  against  his  father-in-law,  with 
urgent  requests  for  assistance.  It  is  now  the  middle  of  April ; 
yet  to  this  hour  have  we  been  left  to  struggle  alone  and  unno¬ 
ticed  ;  until  at  last  we  are  defeated  and  shattered  on  every  side, 
and  reduced  to  utter  extremity.” 

“Be  not  rash  in  condemning,”  said  Mr.  Walker;  “had  you 
closely  watched  events,  you  would  have  found  that  William  was 
so  employed  with  more  important  business,  as  not  to  be  able  to 
assist  us.  About  the  time  we  applied,  Louis,  by  the  perfidious 
invasion  of  Austria,  had  broken  the  peace  of  Nimeguen  ;  in 
March,  the  Diet  of  Ratisbon  declared  war  against  him,  as  the 
common  disturber  of  Christendom  ;  the  Dutch  soon  followed 


28  6 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


them  :  but  a  few  days  since,  the  Elector  of  Brandenburgh  has 
echoed  both.  And  to  all  who  know  that  it  has  been  the  constant 
policy  of  William  to  accomplish  a  general  league  against  his  in¬ 
solent  rival,  it  must  not  seem  strange  that,  in  awaiting  the  proper 
time  to  issue  an  English  declaration,  also,  as  well  as  in  watching 
the  manifestations  of  Spain,  he  has  scarce  found  opportunity  to 
attend  to  Ireland.” 

“  These  reasons,  sir,  could  not  have  influenced  his  conduct  with 
respect  to  us,  from  December  to  the  middle  of  the  last  month, 
inasmuch  as  the  causes  for  them  did  not,  until  that  time,  exist.” 

“You  criticise  closely  ;  and  I  will  not  refuse  you  a  sequel  of 
the  confidence  I  have,  ere  now,  imparted.  Recollect,  first,  that 
William  was  by  no  means  sure  of  his  English  crown  when  our 
addresses  reached  him.  That  he  was  then  awaiting  the  decisions 
of  the  English  Convention,  which,  at  times,  seemed  to  bode  him 
little  comfort  or  honor.  That,  in  fact,  he  was  not  acknowledged 
king  until  late  in  February.  Recollecting  this,  we  must  next 
note  the  opposition  he  experienced  from  the  blinded  prelates,  and 
others  who  style  themselves  non-jurors  ;  the  vexation  caused  to 
him  by  the  intrigues  of  the  disappointed  Tories,  and  even  by  the 
restrictions,  in  the  matter  of  supplies,  laid  on  him  by  his  own 
Whig  Parliament.  All  of  which  so  inflamed  his  difficult  temper, 
as  to  induce  him,  in  disgust,  to  make  a  motion  for  returning  to 
Holland,  and  wholly  abandoning  his  English  crown — ” 

“  Indeed,  Mr.  Walker  !”  interrupted  Evelyn  ;  “I  thought  the 
new  monarch  and  his  people  agreed  well  together.” 

“I  am  scandalized  to  admit  the  contrary.  Either  too  much 
of  the  loose  whims  and  manners  of  the  court  of  the  last  Charles 
continues  among  the  nobles  and  councillors  who  encircle  Dutch 
William,  and  offend  his  notions  of  propriety  ;  or  else  he  is,  him¬ 
self,  framed  by  nature  or  habit,  so  opposite  to  the  English  taste 
and  character,  that  he  and  his  subjects  do  not  seem  likely  ever 
to  love  one  another.  Since,  in  so  important  a  question  as  the 
justly  ascertaining  the  nature  of  the  man  called  to  rule  over  us 
all,  truth  is,  even  for  policy-sake,  to  be  prized,  I  must  confiden¬ 
tially  advise  you  that  I  incline  to  the  latter  opinion  ;  particular¬ 
ly  on  account  of  a  passage  in  the  letter  of  a  great  man,  who  has 
had  good  opportunity  to  observe  the  king,  and  of  whom  I  have 
before  spoken  to  you.  For  the  purpose  of  enlightening  your 
mind  on  this  point,  attend  while  I  read  the  following.” 

Mr.  Walker  produced  a  letter,  from  which  he  read,  aloud,  a 
character  of  William,  penned  by  his  best  eulogist,  Burnet,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  287 

which  appears  retained,  word  for  word,  in  that  author's  history 
of  his  own  times.  It  ran  thus  : 

“The  prince  has  been  much  neglected  in  his  education,  for  all 
his  life-long  he  hated  constraint.  He  speaks  little,  he  puts  on 
some  appearance  of  application,  but  he  hates  business  of  all  sorts  ; 
yet  he  hates  talking,  and  all  house-games,  more.  This  puts  him 
on  a  perpetual  course  of  hunting,  to  which  he  seems  to  give  him¬ 
self  up  beyond  any  man  I  ever  knew  ;  but  I  look  on  that  always 
as  a  flying  from  company  and  business.  He  has  no  vice  but  of 
one  sort,  in  which  he  is  very  cautious  and  secret.  He  has  a  way 
that  was  affable  to  the  Dutch,  but  he  cannot  bring  himself  to 
comply  with  the  temper  of  the  English,  his  coldness  and  slowness 
being  very  contrary  to  the  genius  of  that  nation." 

“  This,”  resumed  Mr.  Walker,  hesitating,  with  some  reason, 
to  read  any  more,  “  would  not  seem  to  augur  a  good  understand¬ 
ing  between  William  and  his  English  subjects.” 

“  Or  between  him  and  his  English  wife,  sir,”  said  Evelyn. 
“Pray,  Mr.  Walker,  do  you  surmise  what  that  one  peccadillo 
is,  about  which  your  friend  gives  him  the  implied  praise  of  being 
so  cautious  and  secret  ?” 

“  No  ;  I  am  left  ignorant  of  the  matter  ;  nor  do  I  wish  to 
probe  the  imperfections  of  princes.  The  sole  information  we  get 
from  what  1  have  read,  consists  in  the  establishment  of  a  certain 
point,  which  was  necessary  to  our  discourse — namely,  that,  along 
with  other  causes  mentioned,  William's  personal  dislike  of  those 
around  him,  and  their  consequent  dislike  of  him,  may  have  tended 
so  to  keep  matters  embroiled  and  disarranged,  on  the  other  side, 
as,  up  to  the  present  time,  to  deprive  us  of  his  assistance.” 

“  I  think  I  have  heard,  too,  that  the  English  army  is  discon¬ 
tented  and  mutinous,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  I  grieve  to  admit  the  fact.  Indeed,  my  letters  apprise  mo 
that  so  much  does  William  doubt  their  steadiness,  that  he  fea™ 
to  send  them  over  here.  His  own  faithful  Dutch  are  absolutely 
indispensable  about  him  to  secure,  in  every  way,  the  new  estab¬ 
lishment.  Fresh  troops  would  require  fresh  expenditure,  which 
his  parliament  does  not  allow  him  to  enter  into  ;  and  much  time, 
in  the  raising  and  disciplining.  Scotland,  too,  is  to  be  settled. 
In  fact,  there  are  abundant  reasons  why  we  have  been  left  to 
light  our  own  battle.” 

“  And,”  continued  Evelyn,  “  none  of  them,  mayhap,  more  co¬ 
gent  than  the  policy  of  allowing  our  failure,  and  James's  success 
over  us,  to  frighten  the  English  people  and  parliament  a  little 


288 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


That  so  men’s  eyes  may  be  more  turned  upon  William,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  more  liberal  concessions  made  to  him.” 

“I  believe  in  my  heart,  youth,”  replied  Mr.  Walker,  riveting 
his  eyes  in  some  surprise,  and  perhaps  admiration,  upon  Evelyn, 
“  thou  hast  truly  fathomed  the  under-current  of  this  political  tide, 
and  guessed  the  very  master-motive  of  King  William’s  back¬ 
wardness  towards  us,  confirmed  by  the  deep  counsels  of  my  Lord 
Halifax.  Is  it  thy  own  thought  ?” 

Evelyn  modestly  admitted  that  it  was,  and  Mr.  Walker  went 
on. 

“  However  that  may  be,  we  have  still  only  one  part  to  act 
Derry  must  be  held  against  James,  until  its  walls  crumble,  and 
its  defenders  lie  buried  in  the  heap.  Succors  will  at  last  come  : 
when  they  do,  let  Ireland  boast  one  strong  place,  at  least,  one 
little  nook,  where  they  can  be  received,  and  taken  advantage  of. 
I  care  not  for  this  governor.  He  steps  to  his  own  downfall,  as 
you  shall  see.  There  is  one  bold  gentleman  whom — though  now 
at  a  distance,  and  beset  with  dangers — I  expect  at  the  gates  :  were 
he  arrived,  we  should  make  a  stern  defence.  Meantime,  I  must 
attend  to  my  duties.  Silent  and  secret  they  shall  be — more  pru¬ 
dent  and  cautious  than  the  shallow  policy  they  oppose — and,  let 
us  hope,  more  successful.  To-morrow,  at  the  furthest,  come  and 
see  me.” 

Evelyn  could  not  remain  ignorant  that  Mr.  Walker’s  secret 
efforts  consisted  in  hinting  here  and  there,  and  amongst  those 
he  knew  were  most  likely  to  be  inflamed,  the  nature  of  the  order 
of  council  that  morning  issued.  It  required  little  argument  to 
convince  the  majority  of  the  people  and  garrison  that  Lundy 
was  a  traitor  to  King  William,  prepared,  according  to  a  per¬ 
fidious  contract,  to  deliver  up  the  city  of  Derry  to  the  vengeance 
of  the  Papists.  The  effects  of  this  conviction  soon  became  ap¬ 
parent  in  the  clamors  of  all  against  his  measures,  and  in  form 
of  a  desperate  resistance.  Parties  of  dragoons  sallied  out,  in 
quest  of  provisions  ;  obnoxious  individuals  experienced  their 
hospitality  ;  and  one  suspected  officer  was  shot. 

The  next  morning,  a  clergyman  from  Johnstown  came  into 
Derry,  dispatched  by  James  from  that  place  to  know  “if  the 
garrison  of  Derry  would  surrender  on  honorable  terms,  which 
they  should  have  to  prevent  the  effusion  of  Christian  blood  j”  and 
also  bearing  a  proclamation  that  gave  solemn  promise  of  safe 
conduct,  in  and  out,  to  such  of  the  citizens  as  might  be  appoint¬ 
ed  to  negotiate.  Another  council  was  immediately  called,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


289 


diplomatists  appointed,  with  liberty  to  any  gentleman  to  join 
them  on  their  peaceful  mission. 

Mr.  Walker  did  not  appear  at  the  council,  nor  take  a  part  in 
the  proceedings,  contenting  himself  with  a  counteraction  of  both, 
which,  for  his  views,  was  more  effective  than  personal  opposition, 
or,  under  the  immediate  circumstances,  overt  hostility  of  any 
kind.  Seconded  by  a  gentleman,  who  afterwards  shared  with 
him  the  honors  and  dangers  of  his  success,  he  went  from  house 
to  house,  from  group  to  group,  through  the  streets  of  the  city  ; 
zealously,  though  secretly  and  prudently,  creating  a  general  ha¬ 
tred  of  the  governor,  and  a  general  distrust  of  the  good  faith 
of  James  and  his  adherents.  He  met  Evelyn  coming  out  from 
the  council  that  had  sat  to  consider  the  message  of  the  deposed 
monarch. 

“  Have  you  been  appointed  ?”  he  asked.  Evelyn  answered, 

“  No.” 

“  Go,  notwithstanding.  Your  eye  and  ear  are  sharp,  and  your 
judgment  ripe  beyond  your  years.  Go — and  as  one  I  can  con¬ 
fide  in.  Bring  me  back  a  true  account  of  this  traitorous  nego¬ 
tiation. 

Evelyn,  learning  that  he  might  accompany  those  who  were 
regularly  named,  did  not  hesitate,  from  feelings  of  general  inter¬ 
est,  as  well  as  curiosity,  to  take  advantage  of  this  hint.  Ed¬ 
mund,  hitherto  a  silent,  and  seemingly  indifferent  spectator  of 
what  was  going  forward,  encountered  him  on  his  way  to  join 
the  commissioners.  Learning  his  purpose  and  destination,  he 
startled  Evelyn  by  expressing  a  wish  to  ride  out  by  his  side. 

“  I  am  extremely  anxious,”  he  said,  “  to  satisfy  myself,  by  per¬ 
sonal  observation,  of  the  appearance  and  condition  of  the  army, 
to  a  portion  of  which  I  belong.” 

“  That  is  natural,”  said  Evelyn,  “and  you  may  meet  some  old 
friends,  too.” 

“  Perhaps  hear  something  of  my  father  and  sister,”  added  Ed¬ 
mund. 

“  Come,  then  ;  but  need  I  observe,  my  dear  M’Donnell,  on  the 
situation  in  which  we  at  present  stand  towards  each  other  ?” 

“  It  is  indeed  unnecessary  to  remind  me  that  I  am  your  pris¬ 
oner.  Still  less  so  to  remind  me  that  my  word  of  honor  is 
pledged  to  consider  myself  as  such.  I  shall  not  press  my  suit.” 

“  You  shall — or  no — take  it,  willingly,  without  a  word  more. 
I  was  wrong,  come,  we  may  be  late  ;  the  commissioners  depart 
immediately.” 


13 


290 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Upon  a  rising  ground,  a  little  at  the  Derry  side  of  Johnstown, 
they  came  in  view  of  James’s  camp.  It  was  gay  and  imposing, 
and  produced  an  evident  effect  on  the  commissioners.  The  de¬ 
posed  king  had  marched  from  Dublin  at  the  head  of  about  twelve 
thousand  men  ;  five  thousand  French,  well  appointed,  in  every 
respect  ;  the  remainder,  however,  native  levies,  deficient  in  arms, 
uniform,  and,  worst  of  all,  discipline.  In  fact,  on  a  par  with  the 
few  thousands  commanded  by  Hamilton  and  Rosen,  and  who 
were  now  joined  to  James’s  grand  army  ;  the  whole  making  a 
present  force  of  twenty  thousand. 

The  French  auxiliaries  exclusively  occupied  the  camp  ;  the  natives 
being  posted  in  the  village,  or,  out  of  sight,  at  the  back  of  the 
eminence,  as  if  their  friends  were  ashamed  of  the  appearance  they 
made.  This  arrangement  was,  at  all  events,  in  conformity  with 
the  spirit  of  rather  insolent  self-sufficiency  and  dictation  which 
had  characterized,  since  their  landing  at  Kinsale,  the  soldiers  of 
his  Most  Christian  majesty,  and  which  caused  many  disagreeable, 
and  some  fatal  squabbles,  between  them  and  the  proud  people 
they  sought  to  depreciate  and  humble  in  their  native  land.  But 
whatever  might  have  been  the  motive  of  the  present  arrange¬ 
ment,  its  effect  was  happy  and  politic.  The  sight  of  a  regular, 
though  small  army,  of  warlike  foreigners,  shining  in  rich  uniforms 
and  polished  arms,  or  prancing  on  caparisoned  war-horses,  being 
calculated  to  impress  the  Derry  deputation  with  more  respect,  at 
least,  than  could  a  host  of  Irish  peasants,  huddled  together  in 
confusion,  and  clothed  and  armed  as  chance  might  provide. 

The  camp  spread  over  two  successive  little  eminences,  on  the 
higher  of  which  was  seen  the  royal  tent,  richly  draped  and 
adorned,  in  French  taste,  and  surmounted  by  the  royal  standard. 
The  city  cavalcade  passed  some  outside  lines,  and  ’approached, 
following  a  guide,  the  first  height,  where  they  expected  to  find 
the  officer  who  should  marshal  them  to  the  king.  Arrived  at 
the  point,  they  saw,  sitting  on  the  grass,  before  his  tent,  and 
surrounded  by  inferior  officers,  a  person  whose  uniform  proclaimed 
him  of  some  importance,  but  whose  features,  air,  and  general 
expression,  caused  a  sentiment  of  dislike  and  fear  rather  than  of 
deference.  He  was  about  forty  years  of  age  ;  his  body  and 
limbs  coarse  and  muscular  ;  his  nose  hooked  ;  his  eye  gray,  small, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


291 


indolent,  and  cruel.  The  pallid,  overshadowing  brows  ;  the  lank, 
colorless  hair  that  hung  at  either  side  of  his  face  ;  and  the  long, 
thick  moustache  of  the  same  which  fell  over  his  upper  lip — gave 
to  his  whole  visage  an  inexpressible  character  of  cool  ferocity. 
This  was  Lord  Galmoy — the  disgrace  of  the  cause  he  abetted, 
the  terror  and  aversion  of  those  he  oppressed — one  of  the  bad 
spirits  that,  in  every  time  of  convulsion,  are  let  loose  to  affright 
and  disgust — who  went  forth  to  the  destroying  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  as  if  summoned  to  a  banquet — and  who,  from  all  that 
can  be  gathered,  warranted  Oldmixon  in  defining  him  as  a  man 
“  whom  no  titles  could  honor.” 

When  the  officer  in  attendance  upon  the  commissioners  had 
announced  them  to  Lord  Galmoy,  he  neither  rose  nor  inclined 
his  head.  He  only  vouchsafed  them  a  cool  stare,  which,  although 
one  of  indifference,  was  more  disagreeable  than  if  he  had  frowned. 
Presently  he  rose,  however,  and  motioning  them  to  follow,  was 
about  to  lead  towards  the  second  eminence,  when  a  Redshank 
quickly  gaining  his  side,  presented  a  packet,  with  the  words, 
4‘  From  his  Lordship  of  Antrim  to  his  Lordship  of  Galmoy — 
these.” 

Edmund  instantly  recognized,  in  this  courier,  the  Scottish  ser¬ 
geant  who  had  opposed  his  authority  in  the  little  Deer  Park. 
The  man’s  observance  of  him  was  equally  quick.  When  Galmoy 
had  done  reading  the  dispatch,  the  sergeant  touched  his  bonnet, 
and  approaching  closely  to  the  nobleman’s  side,  whispered  him, 
and  pointed  to  Edmund.  The  gray  eye  of  Lord  Galmoy  turned 
round,  and  fell,  ominously,  on  the  person  to  whom  his  notice  had 
been  directed.  Again  the  sergeant  said  something  in  a  low  voice, 
and  extended  his  arm  towards  the  group  of  commissioners. 
Again  Lord  Galmoy’s  glance  seemed  to  fix  a  victim  in  the  per¬ 
son  of  Evelyn. 

“  This  requires  present  attention,”  he  then  said,  advancing  a 
few  steps  towards  the  group.  “  Is  there  here  a  native  Irish  sub¬ 
ject  of  King  James,  called  Edmund  M’Donnell?” 

'I  answer  to  that  challenge,”  said  Edmund. 

“  Forward,”  resumed  Lord  Galmoy. 

M’Donnell  stepped  from  Evelyn’s  side. 

“  What  are  you  ?”  questioned  the  nobleman. 

“  An  officer  in  Lord  Antrim’s  regiment.” 

“  Why  are  you  absent  from  your  colors,  and  now  found  by 
the  side  of  traitors  ?” 

il  I  am  a  prisoner,  on  parole,  accompanying  hither  the  person 


rHE  BOYNE  WATER. 


•J92 

who  is  accountable  for  my  safe-keeping,’ ’  replied  Edmund, 
haughtily. 

“  Where  were  you  made  prisoner,  and  by  whom  ?” 

“  Outside  Coleraine,  by  my  Lord  Mount  Alexander.” 

“  What  duty  drew  you  towards  Coleraine  ?” 

“  The  duty  of  honor  and  humanity,  which  prompted  me  to  es¬ 
cort  thither  one  who  was  a  dear  private  friend,  although  a  pub¬ 
lic  enemy,  in  order  to  save  him  from  the  bloodthirsty  hands  of 
my  own  people.” 

“  What  was  that  dear  friend’s  name  ?” 

“  Robert  Evelyn,”  answered  the  person  spoken  of. 

“  Are  you  the  man  ?”  still  demanded  the  catechist. 

Being  answered  yes — “  Forward,”  he  said  again.  “  Whose 
commission  do  you  bear  ?  for  I  see  you,  also,  are  an  officer.” 

“  One  granted  in  the  name  of  King  William  and  Queen  Mary,” 
answered  Evelyn.  A  French  officer,  by  Galmoy’s  side,  slightly 
started,  and  stared  first  at  Evelyn,  and  then  at  his  colleague. 

“Yery  well,”  continued  Lord  Galmoy.  “And  did  you  wear 
that  sword,  and  bear  that  commission,  when  Captain  M’Donnell 
rescued  you  from  the  sergeant  and  soldiers  near  Glenarm  ?” 

“  He  did,”  said  M’Donnell. 

“  Yery  well,  again.  It  seems,  then,  Master  Robert  Evelyn, 
that  you  are  a  traitor,  found  some  time  since  in  arms  against 
King  James,  taken  prisoner,  rescued  after  you  had  surrendered, 
and  now  a  second  time  found  armed  against  your  sovereign. 
And  it  also  seems,  Captain  Edmund  M’Donnell,  that  you,  hold¬ 
ing  a  commission  from  King  James,  have  played  the  double  traitor, 
in  rescuing,  harboring,  and  protecting  a  traitor.” 

“  I  know  not  who  or  what  you  are,”  said  Edmund  ;  “  but  I  call 
you  the  falsest  knave  that  ever  spoke,  for  daring  to  name  me  so.” 

“  Yery  well,”  said  Lord  Galmoy,  quietly,  while  a  smile  played 
over  his  features.  “  Order  round  a  dozen  muskets,  here” — to  an 
officer,  who  immediately  disappeared — “Irish  ones.  Just  kneel 
down,  Master  Evelyn,  and  you,  Captain  Edmund  M’Donnell. 
Stand  aside,  gentlemen.” 

“  Murderer  !”  cried  Edmund,  as  both  started  at  this  sudden 
and  unceremonious  arrangement,  while  the  blood  first  rushing  to 
their  cheeks,  then  retreated  to  their  hearts  ;  “  you  cannot  mean 
this  violence  !  You  cannot  assume  the  power  of  taking  two 
lives,  without  inquiry  or  cause,  authority  or  the  permission  of 
others  I” 

“  My  friend,”  exclaimed  Evelyn,  “  if  at  all  accountable,  is  ac 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


293 


countable  to  his  own  commanding  officer.  As  a  prisoner,  in  my 
charge,  he  is  further  protected  ;  and  I  am  protected  by  the 
pledge  of  safe  conduct  which  King  James  has  given  to  the  depu- 
tation  at  my  side.” 

“  I  cannot  find  your  name  in  the  list,”  replied  Galmoy. 
“  People  of  Derry,  has  Robert  Evelyn  been  appointed  one  of 
your  number  ?” 

The  commissioners  answered  in  the  negative,  but  reminded  him 
of  the  understanding  which  gave  equal  protection  to  any  who  ac¬ 
companied  them. 

“  That  is  a  difference  for  the  counsellor-at-law,  not  for  a  sol¬ 
dier,”  resumed  Lord  Galmoy.  “  Here  come  the  muskets.  Kneel 
down,  you  dear  friends,  with  your  faces  to  that  rise — close  to  it. 
You  will  not  ?  Men  !  tie  them  back  to  back,  and  place  them  on 
the  ground.” 

“  I  appeal  to  King  James,  or  to  his  officers,  against  this  mur¬ 
der  1”  exclaimed  Evelyn,  as  the  men  approached. 

“  If  there  be  here  a  gentleman,  a  man,  or  a  true  soldier,” 
echoed  Edmund,  “  we  appeal  to  him !” 

“  What  say  you,  General  De  Rosen  ?”  asked  Galmoy  of  the 
French  officer  by  his  side,  and  who,  though  not  so  terribly  dis¬ 
tinguished  as  his  lordship,  yet  has  left  behind  him  some  character 
for  cruelty  and  tyranny. 

“  Qu’ils  meurent,”  answered  De  Rosen,  laconically. 

u  Do  your  duty,”  continued  Galmoy  to  the  soldiers. 

The  young  men  flew  to  each  other’s  arms,  and  then  advanced, 
hand  in  hand,  to  the  place  pointed  out.  They  knelt  ;  bandages 
were  tied  hard  over  their  eyes  ;  and,  still  grasping  each  other's 
hands,  they  awaited,  in  silence  and  darkness,  a  sudden  and  miser¬ 
able  death. 

“  Fall  in  !”  they  heard  Galmoy  say  ;  and  the  soldiers  got  into 
motion. 

“  Ready  ?”  The  muskets,  as  the  men  brought  them  into  the 
position  required,  flashed.  The  friends  heard  the  sharp  click  of 
the  locks,  from  half  to  full  cock,  and,  slight  as  the  sound  in  real¬ 
ity  was,  it  filled  their  brains  with  horrid  noise. 

“  Present !”  continued  Galmoy,  in  a  deliberate,  distinct,  and 
withal  a  mocking  tone. 

“  Recover  arms  !”  was  the  next  command. 

The  hands  of  the  two  friends,  which  had  been  clasped  togeth¬ 
er,  fell  by  their  sides.  They  were  more  unnerved  by  the  abrupt 
relief  than  they  had  been  by  the  prospect  of  immediate  death. 


294 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  On  second  thoughts,  young  sirs,”  Galmoy  went  on,  “  this 
shall  be  done  better.  You,  Captain  M’Donnell,  take  the  band¬ 
age  off  your  eyes,  get  up,  and  advance  hither.  Master  Evelyn 
need  not  be  at  the  trouble  of  moving.” 

Edmund,  faint,  and  almost  bewildered,  obeyed  these  orders. 

“  In  consideration  of  your  late  courtesy  to  me,”  he  sneered,  as 
they  stood  face  to  face,  “  I  ask  you,  are  you  willing  to  do  a 
slight  piece  of  service  for  your  life  ?” 

“  Life  is  dear  to  every  man  :  let  me  hear  your  terms,”  an¬ 
swered  M’Donnell. 

“  Give  him  a  musket.”  A  soldier  placed  one  in  Edmund’s 
passive  hands.  “  Now,  to  save  so  dear  a  friend  from  common 
executioners,  shoot  him,  yourself,”  added  Galmoy. 

“Do  not  urge  me  to  this,”  said  Edmund,  glaring  on  Galmoy, 
though  he  spoke  in  a  subdued  voice. 

“ 1  only  command  you,”  replied  the  torturer 

“Do  not,  I  entreat  you,”  continued  M’Donnell,  a  terrible 
energy  renerving  his  frame,  although  he  still  spoke  slowly  and 
deliberately  ;  “  for  the  sake  of  manhood  and  decency,  as  you 
love  or  fear  God,  do  not.” 

Galmoy  repeated  his  command. 

“  Well,  then,”  said  Edmund,  bringing  the  musket  to  his  shoul¬ 
der.  “  Yet,  once  more,  do  not.” 

“  Eire !” 

“  Yes,  monster,”  screamed  poor  M’Donnell,  turning  madly 
upon  him,  and  pulling  the  trigger.  A  soldier  just  had  time  to 
strike  aside  the  muzzle  of  the  piece,  so  that  Galmoy’s  hair  was 
only  singed,  although  he  staggered,  and  fell. 

“  Leap  up,  Evelyn !”  roared  Edmund,  who  thought  Galmoy 
was  killed.  His  friend  was  instantly  at  his  side.  But  both  were 
as  instantly  seized  by  De  Rosen,  by  some  of  the  near  soldiers, 
and  by  Galmoy  himself,  who  soon  started  to  his  feet.  The  young 
men,  urged  by  thoughtless  desperation,  firmly  grasped,  in  turn, 
the  two  generals.  The  soldiers  tugged  hard  to  tear  away  their 
Hands,  fearful  of  injuring  Rosen  or  Galmoy,  should  they  fire  on 
the  youths,  until  both  parties  stood  on  separate  ground.  And 
thus  some  short  time  had  elapsed  since  the  report  of  the  musket, 
when  a  stir  took  place  through  all  the  camp,  particularly  near  the 
royal  tent.  Officers  and  soldiers  stood  to  their  arms  ;  trumpets 
sounded  a  salute  ;  kettle-drums  rolled  ;  cheers  arose  ;  horses  in 
full  gallop  were  heard  approaching.  There  was  a  rush  round  the 
sweep  of  the  eminence  on  which  the  struggle  went  on  ;  a  gallant 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


295 


party,  splendidly  mounted  and  attired,  appeared  in  view.  “  The 
King  !  the  King  !”  cried  many  officers  who  rode  before.  “  Make 
way  !  make  way  I” 

At  these  words,  Edmund  and  Evelyn  readily  freed  their  per¬ 
secutors,  who,  in  turn,  allowed  them  to  stand  free  ;  Galmoy 
making  a  hasty  signal  to  the  soldiers  to  wheel  round,  and  come 
to  a  salute.  M’Donnell  darted  forward,  and,  flinging  himself 
almost  under  the  feet  of  a  proud  steed,  cried  out  : 

“  My  king  and  master  ! — where  is  he  ?  To  him  I  appeal 
from  an  assassin !” 

The  rider  skilfully  checked  his  prancing  horse,  and  backed 
kirn  amongst  the  group  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  As  he  sat 
erect  in  his  saddle,  he  seemed  a  man  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
above  the  middle  size,  well  and  rather  squarely  made  ;  his 
features  large  and  rigid  ;  but  wearing,  instead  of  the  mild  mel¬ 
ancholy  of  his  father’s,  or  the  gra  ve  voluptuousness  of  his  broth¬ 
er’s,  a  somewhat  bolder  and  haughtier  expression  ;  with  perhaps 
more  enterprise  than  was  apparent  in  the  countenance  of  either. 
His  flowing  periwig  descended  over  his  shoulders  and  back  ;  his 
round  gray  hat,  looped  up  at  front,  displayed  a  red  and  white 
plume,  that  was  secured  by  a  brilliant  cross ;  many  orders, 
foreign  and  national,  surrounded  the  royal  star  that  blazed 
on  his  breast ;  the  holsters  at  his  saddle-bow  were  richly  em¬ 
broidered  ;  his  horse  nobly  caparisoned  ;  his  boots  furnished 
with  golden  spurs.  It  was  evident  that  Louis’s  attention  to 
tfie  outfit  of  his  royal  brother,  left  naked  but  for  him,  had  been 
vorthy  of  the  respect  he  always  professed  for  the  exiled  monarch. 

“  Blessed  saints  !”  cried  James,  after  he  had  reined  back  his 
horse,  “  what  bold  fool  is  here  ?” 

“  Royal  sir,”  continued  Edmund,  dropping  on  one  knee,  “  I 
am  your  majesty’s  faithful  subject — an  officer  bearing  your  maj 
esty’s  commission  ;  and  I  appeal  for  protection  against  yon  mur¬ 
derous  man,  who,  because  I  once  saved  the  life  of  a  friend — a 
near  friend — the  husband  of  my  sister,  and  the  brother  of  my 
own  betrothed  lady — calls  me — and  falsely  calls  me — disloyal  to 
your  majesty,  and  here  seeks — ” 

“  My  Lord  Galmoy,  what  means  this  tumult  ?  Who  fired 
the  shot,  just  now  ?”  interrupted  James. 

“  I  did  1”  answered  Edmund  ;  “  ’twas  I,  sire,  and  at  him,  too. 
But  it  was  when  he  placed  a  musket  in  my  hand,  and  command¬ 
ed  me  to  murder  my  affianced  brother !” 

“  All  this  is  something  very  scandalous,”  replied  Jamef 


296 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“Sarsfield,  we  request  you  to  inquire  into  it,  and  report  tc  ns 
Rise,  man,  and  stand  before  that  gentleman  :  he  will  protect  you, 
if  so  you  merit.  Hold  !  be  these  the  commissioners  from  Derry  ? 
Turn  off  along  with  us,  Hamilton,  and  you,  Messieurs  Maumont 
and  De  Rosen,  with  his  grace  of  Berwick.  Let  the  citizens 
attend  us.” 

He  was  followed  to  a  little  distance  by  the  officers  he  had 
named,  the  commissioners  accompanying  them  ;  and  the  capitu¬ 
lation  of  Derry  became  the  subject  of  discussion  between  all,  while 
Sarsfield  proceeded  in  the  inquiry  his  sovereign  had  commanded. 
The  attention  of  this  celebrated  general  had,  before  James’s 
speech,  been  riveted  on  Edmund,  either  in  astonishment  or  strong 
interest.  M’Donnell  now  found  himself  equally  attracted  by  the 
mien  and  person  of  Sarsfield.  He  was  in  the  prime  of  life — that 
is,  about  forty — tall,  straight,  robust,  and,  both  by  nature  and 
the  dress  he  wore,  stamped  with  the  character  of  a  plain-looking 
man.  His  features,  strong  and  well-defined,  bespoke  a  simple 
intenseness  of  mind  and  purpose,  that  atoned  for  their  want  of 
vivacity.  In  strong  contrast  to  the  French  pageantry  around 
him,  he  had  on  an  unembroidered,  unwrought  buff  coat,  that 
must  have  seen  service  ;  over  it,  a  rusty  cuirass,  together  with 
the  pauldrons,  or  shoulder-pieces,  inseparable  from  the  solid 
body-piece,  of  recent  use,  but  in  which  he  was  now  rather  singu¬ 
lar.  A  straight  sword  hung  from  a  broad  plain  baldric  loose 
at  his  side  ;  a  close  steel  cap  partly  confined  his  own  long  black 
hair,  in  lieu  of  periwig  ;  and  great  jackboots  completed  his  un¬ 
pretending  costume. 

“  What  is  your  name,  young  master  ?”  was  the  first  question 
asked  by  Sarsfield,  in  commencing  his  investigation.  Edmund 
having  answered — 

“  The  son  of  old  Randal  M’Donnell,  of  Antrim  ?” 

“  The  same,  sir,”  replied  Edmund. 

“  I  know  him,  or  rather  I  knew  him  well.  It  will  grieve  me 
if,  in  this  business,  the  son  has  forgotten  the  father.  Let  us  see 
about  it.” 

Galmoy,  seconded  by  the  sergeant,  told,  in  a  sulky  tone,  his 
charge  against  Edmund.  Sarsfield  then  turned  to  him  for  an 
explanation. 

“  First,”  said  M’Donnell,  “  I  could  not  consider  as  my  prison¬ 
er,  the  man  who,  having  an  advantage  over  me,  declined  to 
avail  himself  of  it.  Next,  sir,  he  was,  as  I  have  informed  his 
majesty,  my  brother  twice  told.  That  i?  my  answer  ” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


297 


“My  Lord  Galmoy,”  resumed  the  judge,  after  a  little  pause, 
“  there  is  some  allowance  to  be  made  for  both  those  arguments. 
Let  us  not  set  at  naught,  though  some  have  taught  us  the 
lesson,  the  natural  yearnings  of  the  heart  to  kith  and  kin, 
especially  when  young  blood  sets  them  agoing.  A  man  will  be 
never  the  worse  soldier  or  subject  for  remembering  that  he  is  a 
man.” 

“  General  Sarsfield,”  replied  Galmoy,  bitterly,  “  if  this  be 
meant  as  grace  to  the  prisoner,  I  take  the  freedom  of  protesting 
against  your  single  decree.  The  king  will  not  surely  deny  me 
the  indulgence  of  another  judge,  that  may  know  nothing  of  the 
pedigree  of  the  traitor.” 

“  False  lord,”  interrupted  M’Donnell,  “  I  tell  thee  once  again 
thou  art  nearer  to  traitor-blood  than  I  am.” 

“  Silence,  youth,”  said  Sarsfield,  gravely,  though  not  sternly. 
“  I  take  you  at  your  word,  my  Lord  Galmoy  ;  nay,  you  can 
even  appoint  the  umpire  without  trouble  to  his  majesty.  Here 
spurs  General  Hamilton  from  the  council  :  will  he  serve  your 
turn  ? 

“  I  accept  him,”  replied  Galmoy. 

The  officer  who  now  approached  was,  although  a  gallant  com¬ 
mander,  too,  of  an  appearance  and  mien  very  different  from  Sars¬ 
field.  The  reader  has  before  got  a  sketch  of  his  history,  in  a 
conversation  between  Mr.  Walker  and  Evelyn,  from  which  it  may 
be  recollected  that  he  had  served  with  success  and  credit  in  France. 
Fame  adds,  that  his  career  was  there  interrupted  by  a  sentence 
of  banishment,  in  consequence  of  his  having  presumed,  not,  how¬ 
ever,  against  the  lady’s  liking,  to  fall  in  love  with  Louis’s  daugh¬ 
ter,  the  Princess  Conti.  Distinctions  of  rank  apart,  that  royal 
maiden,  in  this  matter,  certainly  gave  no  proof  of  bad  taste. 
Hamilton  was  young,  a  fine,  Apollo-looking  fellow,  with  large 
luminous  black  eyes,  straight  nose,  high  color,  outfolding  lips, 
and  a  grand  air,  as  much,  perhaps,  the  result  of  personal  pride, 
as  of  the  will  of  nature.  His  dress  fully  proclaimed  how  well 
the  wearer  stood  in  his  own  opinion.  Without  being  gaudy,  it 
was  rich,  almost  to  grandeur,  and  studiously  adapted  to  set  ofi 
liis  figure  to  as  much  advantage  as  the  costume  of  the  day  per¬ 
mitted.  Gold  fringe  hung  from  the  edges  of  his  scarlet  vest, 
from  the  edges  of  his  flapping  pockets,  from  the  pockets  of  his 
broad-skirted  coat,  of  the  same  color,  and  even  from  the  edges 
of  the  ample  gloves,  that  reached  almost  to  his  elbows  :  he  wore 
a  neckcloth  of  the  finest  Point  d’Espagne  ;  his  breast-piece  shone 

13* 


298 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


like  a  mirror  ;  even  his  heavy  boots  were  made,  so  as  to  gi?« 
some  indication  of  the  symmetry  of  the  limbs  they  covered. 

Dashing  up  to  the  group  with  whom  we  are  immediately  con* 
'erned — 

“  The  king,”  said  Hamilton,  “  wishes  me  to  inquire  the  cause 
of  some  loud  speech  here,  and  if  possible  to  assist  in  soothing  it.” 

“  And  we  wished  your  presence  for  just  such  a  purpose,”  said 
Sarsfield.  “  Pray,  lend  us  your  ears,  General  Hamilton.” 

The  matter  in  dispute  was  again  stated  on  all  sides  :  Hamil¬ 
ton  unhesitatingly  confirmed  the  judgment  of  Sarsfield  on  the 
first  point  of  issue. 

“  Had  the  young  officer  done  otherwise,”  he  added,  “  I  should 
vote  him  the  volley  my  Lord  Galmoy  thinks  he  merits.” 

“  But  now  that  we  hold  in  custody  the  rebel  and  traitor  whom 
Captain  M’Donnell — ”  Galmoy  began — 

“  He  cannot  have  rescued  one  who  was  never  taken  prisoner,” 
interrupted  Hamilton.  “  Tush  !  that  is  the  plain  truth.” 

“  And,  of  course,”  said  Sarsfield,  “  Master  Robert  Evelyn 
comes  before  us  simply  as  one  of  this  Derry  deputation  ;  and, 
rebel  and  traitor  though  he  be,  is  protected  by  the  king’s  pledge 
of  safe  conduct  and  safe-keeping  to  all  who  form  it.” 

“  I  thank  you,  gentlemen,”  resumed  Galmoy,  smiling  hideously. 
“  And,  I  pray  you,  what  is  to  be  my  satisfaction  for  the  at¬ 
tempt  on  my  life  ?” 

“  The  satisfaction  of  reflecting  that  your  lordship  has  not  shed 
innocent  blood,”  answered  Sarsfield.  Hamilton  only  smiled. 

“Or  of  seeing  myself  the  butt  of  a  youngster  ?”  continued  Gal¬ 
moy,  fixing  a  look  on  Hamilton. 

“Or  of  thanking  God  and  your  saint  that  the  ball  erred  so 
widely  ?”  retorted  the  young  commander,  carelessly  meeting  his 
glare  ;  “  for,  unauthorized  in  your  hasty  course,  as  it  now  ap¬ 
pears  you  have  been,  your  death,  on  the  spot,  had  been  but  a 
justifiable  homicide  at  the  hands  of  the  young  officer.  Bah  !  let 
it  end.  His  majesty  moves  this  way.” 

“  My  lords  and  gentlemen,”  said  James,  as,  with  his  other  com¬ 
manding  officers,  he  joined  them,  “  we  congratulate  you  on  a 
promise  of  the  peaceful  and  bloodless  ending  of  this  affair.  Our 
good  citizens  of  Derry  thankfully  accept,  by  these  their  deputies, 
the  terms  of  surrender  we  have  graciously  allowed  them.  To¬ 
morrow  we  ride,  in  person,  to  the  gates  of  yon  foolish  city,  when, 
by  contract,  they  shall  open  to  receive  us.  Meantime,  we  con* 
cede  to  rest,  with  our  force,  on  the  ground  we  now  occupy  ;  and, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


29) 


to-morrow,  only  a  detachment  of  the  army  is  to  accompany  us. 
Farewell,  gentlemen  commissioners.  To  our  tent  !”  he  continued, 
waving  his  hand  to  those  around  him.  All  who  had  accompanied 
him  down  the  hill,  Sarsfield  excepted,  galloped  back  with  him, 
amid  renewed  cheers,  presenting  of  arms,  trumpets,  and  other 
bustle. 

“M’Donnell,”  said  Sarsfield,  advancing  to  Edmund,  as  the  com¬ 
missioners  prepared  to  return  homeward,  “  for  your  father’s  sake 
and  your  own  I  am  interested  in  you.  Stay  in  my  tent  until  I 
can  effect  your  reconciliation  with  my  Lord  Antrim.  Or  should 
you  incline  to  wear  a  uniform  more  Irish,  you  shall  have  the  rank 
you  at  present  hold  under  that  nobleman,  confirmed  in  my  regi¬ 
ment  of  Lucan  horse.” 

“  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  sir,”  replied  Edmund  ;  “but  you 
forget  that  I  am  a  prisoner  on  parole.” 

“  True  ;  I  had  forgotten  that/’  said  his  patron,  with  regret. 

“  Aud  then,  should  my  cousin  of  Antrim  make  no  difficulty  of 
the  present  question  between  us,  you  know  that  my  immediate 
service  is  due  to  the  head  of  my  own  clan.” 

“  Well,  well,  I  did  not  bring  to  mind,  either,  your  half-Scot¬ 
tish  formalities.  Adieu,  then  ;  you  return  to  Derry  with  your 
foe-friend  ?” 

“  That  must  be  my  course  in  honor,  sir.” 

“  Be  it  so.  I  only  add,  if  you  ever  want  me,  come  to  me  and 
say  so.”  He  shook  Edmund’s  hand,  and  spurred  from  him. 

The  commissioners,  accompanied  by  M’Donnell  and  Evelyn, 
returned  to  the  city.  The  moment  they  entered  Bishop’s  gate, 
Mr.  Walker  tapped  Evelyn  on  the  shoulder,  took  his  arm,  and, 
drawing  him  aside,  demanded  an  account  of  the  negotiation. 
When  Evelyn  had  rendered  it,  he  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  asked  : 

“  To-morrow,  you  say  ?” 

“To-morrow,  King  James  will  personally  require  a  fulfilment 
of  the  treaty  formally  entered  into  with  him.” 

“  Most  traitorously  entered  into  with  him  !  Well  ;  he  haa 
not  yet  got  admission.” 

He  called  a  man,  one  of  his  own  corps,  and  giving  some  direc¬ 
tions,  in  a  low  but  earnest  tone,  the  soldier  instantly  mounted 
his  horse,  and  left  the  city. 

“Ride,  ride,  day  and  night  1”  cried  Walker,  as  he  departed, 

“  for  life  and  death,  ride  !” 

Then  he  abruptly  joined  a  group  of  young  men  and  soldiers, 


300 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


whom  Evelyn  recognized  as  some  of  the  warrior  apprentices  of 
Dcrrv,  and  the  most  resolute  of  the  garrison.  With  them,  the 
clergyman  conversed  energetically.  Their  faces  and  action,  as 
the  spoke  in  reply,  argued  a  warm  seconding  of  his  words. 
Finally,  he  disappeared  into  the  house  of  a  gentleman  before 
alluded  to,  with  whom  he  kept  up  a  full  understanding,  and 
Evelyn  saw  him  no  more  for  that  night. 

Next  morning,  the  town  was  in  great  commotion  at  the  intel¬ 
ligence  of  the  advance  of  James’s  army.  Evelyn  and  M’Donnel 
ran  with  a  crowd  of  the  citizens  to  the  wall,  at  the  southeast 
end  over  Bishop’s  gate,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  road 
from  Johnstown.  Thence,  indeed,  they  beheld  a  long  line  of 
horse  and  foot,  with  flags  and  colors,  winding  at  some  distance 
down  gentle  slopes  of  land,  and  by  glimpses  of  water,  a  bright 
April  sun  flashing  on  their  pikes  and  muskets,  steel  caps,  and 
breast-pieces,  and  giving  brilliancy  and  life  to  their  appearance. 

“  As  God  liveth,”  loudly  exclaimed  Mr.  Walker,  who  stood 
by,  throwing  into  his  manner  more  vivacity  than  was  natural 
to  him,  “  we  are  betrayed,  even  in  the  treaty  made  with  us.  It 
was  promised  not  to  march  a  Papist  army  within  four  miles  of 
our  town — but  the  false  Papists  come  !” 

Here  the  town  bells  rang  out,  and  it  was  understood  that  the 
governor  had  called  another  council. 

“This  utter  perfidy,”  continued  Walker  to  Evelyn,  in  the 
same  loud  tone,  “  I  could  not  reckon  on.  I  fear  we  are  lost.” 

“James  could  not  come  unattended,”  said  Evelyn,  “  and  he 
does  not  come  with  his  whole  army.” 

“  Tell  me  not !  Hide  not  our  ruin  from  us.  My  friend,  my 
zealous  and  brave  friend,  where  art  thou  ? — Ha  !’’  interrupting 
himself,  as  the  man  he  had  dispatched  from  the  city  the  day 
before,  here  galloped  up  the  street.  “  Well,  sir,  well?” 

“  He  is  at  Butcher’s  gate,  by  this  time,  or  close  to  it,” 
answered  the  jaded  messenger. 

“  Thank  God  !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Walker  ;  “  there  is  hope  yet.7 

A  thundering  at  Butcher’s  gate,  so  loud  as  to  echo  through 
the  little  city,  was  now  heard.  Walker  hastened  thither. 

He  found  the  whole  guard  resolute  in  refusing  admission  to 
the  persons  that  clamored  at  the  outside. 

“  I  tell  you  it  is  Captain  Adam  Murray,  a  brave  gentleman, 
and  your  best  Mend.  Undo  the  gate!”  cried  Mr.  Walker.  Still 
they  refused.  The  governor’s  orders  had  been  peremptory.  He 
ran  up  to  the  terra-plane,  and  called  for  ropes  ;  he  descended, 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


SOI 


and  asked  for  the  officer  of  the  guard.  He  was  absent,  ne 
inquired  his  name.  Captain  James  Morrison,  he  was  answered — 
one  of  the  apprentice  boys. 

“Where  is  he  ?”  Morrison  appeared  coming  down  the  street. 
In  a  few  moments,  contrary  to  the  orders  received,  Butcher’s 
ga  te  was  opened,  and  Murray,  with  a  large  body  of  well-appointed 
horse,  rushed  in.  Walker  and  he  clasped  hands. 

“  I  have  left  fifteen  hundred  infantry  a  mile  off,”  said  Murray. 
“  Come  I  too  late  ?” 

“  Do  you  know  who  approaches  Bishop’s  gate  V'  demanded 
Walker. 

“  The  tyrant  ? — with  his  army  ?” 

“  Even  so.  But,  patience  ;  come  now  to  the  council.  To  the 
council  1”  he  continued,  addressing  those  around  him,  including 
Murray’s  dragoons — “  to  the  council,  loyal  citizens !  Haste,  or 
we  are  betrayed  ! — treason,  treason  I” 

Evelyn  followed  him  and  his  new  friend  to  the  market-house, 
where  Lundy  and  his  council  were  deliberating,  and  could  scarce 
push  in  among  the  anxious  crowd  that  closed  round' Walker. 

The  deliberators  had  just  come  to  a  resolution  of  immediate 
surrender,  when  Walker  and  Murray  confronted  them  at  the 
table.  Some  agitation  was  instantly  evinced  among  the  adherents 
of  Lundy,  for  Walker  was  pale,  and  the  sturdy  militia-captain 
red  with  anger. 

“  No  surrender !”  cried  Murray,  the  moment  he  had  heard  the 
nature  of  the  resolution — “no  treason  will  we  join  you  in,  Mr. 
Governor  and  gentlemen.  No  such  treason  as  left  our  passes 
unguarded — as  sent  back  to  Derry  the  ten  thousand  willing  men 
you  took  out  of  it  to  the  banks  of  the  Finn,  and  would  at  last 
deliver  us  to  our  perfidious  enemies.  No  surrender,  men  of 
Derry  !” 

A  loud  cheer  answered  him.  Lundy  seemed  appalled.  But  he 
tried  to  repel  the  dangerous  charge  thus  brought  against  him 
and  his  colleagues. 

“  Patience,  Captain  Murray,”  said  Walker,  giving  him  a  pri¬ 
vate  signal  ;  “  mayhap  you  are  too  hasty  in  accusing.  All  that 
you  have  spoken  of  was  done  openly,  and  therefore  let  us  say 
fairly.  I  propose  only  one  question — only  one.”  He  grew 
paler,  with  the  conscious  importance  of  the  climax  he  was  thus 
approaching  ;  his  eye  flashed  ;  his  figure  became  more  erect  ; 
and  in  his  purple  coat,  and  his  large  bands,  forming  a  strong 
professional  contrast  to  the  military  sash  round  his  waist,  and 


302 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  sword  he  held  under  his  arm,  together  with  the  whole  ex* 
pression  of  his  features  and  manner,  Evelyn  saw  in  him  a  striking 
specimen  of  a  soldier  of  the  church  militant.  “  And,”  he  re¬ 
sumed,  after  a  pause,  “  this  is  my  question.  What  has  become 
of  the  order,  in  consequence  of  which  King  William’s  officers, 
and  their  two  disciplined  regiments,  sent  by  his  gracious  Majesty 
for  our  especial  comfort  and  relief,  were  compelled  to  abandon 
this  wretched  city  in  its  sorest  need  ?  Why  was  not  that  made 
public  ?”  Lundy  looked  confounded. 

“  The  suppression  of  such  an  order  was  not  fair.  What  Cap¬ 
tain  Murray  has  charged  may  have  been  so.  I  judge  no  man, 
because  it  was  openly  done.  But  that  was  secretly  done — done 
in  the  dark.  As  the  Lord  liveth,  that ,  I  believe,  was  treason  1” 

“  It  was  !”  cried  his  seconder  ;  “and  let  it  be  punished  as  such.” 

“  It  was  !  it  was  !”  shouted  the  soldiers  and  citizens.  “  String 
them  up  ;  they  have  betrayed  us  !” 

“They  have!”  echoed  Mr.  Walker,  at  last  flinging  off  his 
mask  of  moderation  ;  “  but,  if  ye  hold  the  hearts  of  men,  not 
yet  unto  the*  death.  To  your  walls — to  your  posts — to  your 
gates!  the  exterminators  beset  them  this  moment.  To  your 
guns !  Follow  us  !”  he  continued,  bursting  through  the  crowd 
with  his  friend.  “  Let  every  man  who  loves  life,  religion,  liberty, 
and  his  fireside,  mount  such  a  badge  as  Captain  Murray  now  ties 
on  his  arm.”  It  was  a  white  handkerchief.  Hundreds  instantly 
obeyed  this  command  ;  and  with  cries  of  “  Come  on !”  from  the 
two  leaders,  and  of  acclamations  from  themselves,  soldiers  and 
people,  ran  up  to  the  church  bastion,  and  to  the  whole  line  of 
wall  over  Bishop’s  gate. 

James  appeared,  with  his  detachment,  but  one  or  two  hundred 
yards  from  them.  Double  rows  of  muskets  were  instantly 
formed,  the  guns  loaded  with  small  shot,  and  resolutely  manned. 

Messengers  arrived  from  the  council,  exhorting  the  soldiers 
and  citizens  not  to  fire,  until  a  deputation  should  be  sent  out. 
Numbers  of  the  elder  and  more  respectable  citizens  seconded 
this  request ;  Evelyn  raised  his  voice  on  the  same  side.  Even 
Walker  seemed  outwardly  willing  to  recommend  forbearance ; 
but  Evelyn,  being  closer  to  him  than  he  suspected,  overheard  him 
add,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Murray : 

“  Let  us  lull  their  fears  ;  it  may  save  a  struggle  within  the  very 
walls.” 

Still  the  army  approached  ;  and  now  their  music  burst  gayly 
on  the  air. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


303 


“Yonder,”  resumed  Mr.  Walker,  still  in  a  low  voice,  and 
addressing  himself  to  one  of  the  enterprising  apprentices,  who 
had  before  done  him  a  service — “  yonder  is  the  cruel  tyrant,  in 
person.” 

“  Where  ?”  asked  James  Spike,  standing  to  the  side  of  his 
gun,  a  ready  match  in  his  hand. 

“  See  you  not  the  crowd  of  gay  officers  who  push  on  before 
the  army  ?  See  you  not  two  of  them  that  ride  alone,  surrounded 
by  the  others  ?  The  man  on  the  gray  horse,  to  the  right,  is  the 
tyrant.” 

James  Spike  rested  his  match  across  the  saker.  He  and 
Walker  looked  earnestly  at  each  other. 

“  Touch  her,”  at  last  whispered  the  clergyman — “  but  no — not 
yet ;  bear  her  muzzle  down,  a  little.  Softly  ;  none  need  note 
you — there,  that  allows  for  your  elevation.  Touch  her  now.” 

“Well,  my  mother,  honest  woman,  little  thought  I’d  have 
lived  to  do  this,”  said  Spike,  laughing.  Flash  and  roar  went  the 
saker,  with  a  mouthful  of  shot  for  King  James,  from  his  good 
city  of  Derry,  to  which,  with  colors  flying  and  music  playing,  he 
ambled  so  tranquilly.  Ere  the  smoke  came  between,  Evelyn  saw 
an  aid-de-camp  drop,  while  others  fell  in  the  ranks  of  the  ap¬ 
proaching  line.  Well  might  the  musicians  stop  both  their  melody 
and  their  march  ;  and,  unsupported  by  cannon  as  James  at 
present  was,  well  might  he,  too,  turn  his  horse’s  head  towards 
Johnstown  ;  and,  like  the  king  of  France,  who, 

- “  with  forty  thousand  men. 

Marched  up  the  hill,  and  then  marched  down  again,” 

fall  back  with  his  army  to  safer  quarters.  One  single  horseman 
stood  a  moment  behind,  his  face  turned  towards  the  false  city. 
Evelyn,  looking  sharply,  recognized  him  to  be  Sarsfield.  He 
stood  as  if  astonishment  and  indignation  kept  him  motionless, 
or  as  if  to  dare  another  shot  in  his  own  person.  More  than  a 
minute  he  so  stood  ;  then  suddenly  wheeled  round  and  galloped 
after  his  friends. 

The  determinations  of  the  council  became  useless  ;  nay,  the 
council  itself,  not  conceiving  their  presence  of  much  further  im¬ 
port,  stole,  one  by  one,  out  of  the  city.  Lundy,  however,  being 
so  well  known,  feared  to  expose  himself  to  the  infuriated  garri¬ 
son  and  people,  and  remained  secreted  in  his  own  house.  Mx. 
W alker  hearing  this,  visited  him. 


304 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“ 1  grieve  for  you,  Colonel  Lundy,”  he  said  ;  “  believe  me,  I 
never  meant  to  involve  you  in  the  danger  that  now  so  nearly  threat¬ 
ens  you.” 

“It  increases  then,  Mr.  Walker?”  demanded  the  governor. 

“  So  much  so,  that  my  poor  influence  has  proved  almost  inef¬ 
fectual  in  saving  your  house  from  an  attack.” 

“  What  would  you  advise,  sir  ?” 

“  Why,  your  friends  have  all  contrived  to  escape  ;  but,  doubt¬ 
less,  the  peril  to  you,  at  this  late  period,  is  more  grievous  than 
it  was  to  them.  I  am  anxious,  however,  to  do  you  any  service 
in  my  power.” 

Lundy  paused,  and  looked  keenly  into  the  speaker’s  face. 
After  a  minute’s  scrutiny  he  rose. 

“  To  you,  sir,  I  commit  myself,”  he  said. 

“  Procure  a  disguise,  then.  Follow  me  ;  and  Providence  may 
yet  befriend  us.” 

Lundy  obeying  his  suggestions  in  every  respect,  was  conveyed 
by  W alker  and  some  friends  past  the  gates.  There  they  parted. 

“  Take  heed  of  yourself  now,  and  Heaven  guide  you,”  added 
the  plotter,  who  had  led  Colonel  Lundy  almost  to  death,  and  who 
now  delivered  him  from  this  danger. 

As  he  returned  up  the  street,  a  crowd  were  collected  round 
Captain  Murray,  shouting  loudly. 

“No,  citizens,”  this  gentleman  was  saying,  “  I  am  not  fit  to 
be  your  governor.  Your  champion  I  hope  to  be.  But  here  is 
the  man  of  our  choice.  Long  live  our  governor,  the  Rev.  Colonel 
George  Walker  1” 

This  nomination  was  immediately  confirmed  ;  and  also  a  dep¬ 
uty  chosen  in  the  person  of  the  Derry  friend  before  mentioned 
as  much  in  Mr.  Walker’s  confidence.  Evelyn  curiously  watched 
the  eye  of  the  new  governor,  but  could  detect,  under  the  mod¬ 
esty  of  its  lid,  no  sparkling  of  the  gratified  ambition  and  triumph 
he  had  expected. 

The  energy  of  Mr.  Walker  became  more  than  ever  conspicu¬ 
ous.  He  promptly  examined  the  stores,  the  magazine,  the  guns, 
the  gates  ;  he  arranged  the  garrison  under  eight  colonels,  of 
whom  himself  made  one  ;  and  found  it  to  amount  to  seven 
thousand  five  hundred  active  soldiers,  and  between  three  and 
four  hundred  officers.  With  this  force,  Derrv  commenced  a 
regular  resistance  to  King  James.  But  it  should  not  be  forgot¬ 
ten,  that  the  men,  women,  and  children,  natives  and  strangers, 
who,  exclusive  of  the  garrison,  finally  remained,  amounted  to 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


305 


twenty  thousand.  A  population  frightfully  disproportioned  to 
the  supplies  of  the  besieged  city  ;  and,  indeed,  even  to  its  ex¬ 
tent. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Some  weeks  after  the  events  we  have  just  detailed,  Mr.  Walker 
called  on  Evelyn  late  at  night,  and  took  him  by  the  arm  to  the 
walls. 

“  Stand  here  with  me,”  he  said,  “  and,  first,  consider  our  situ¬ 
ation.  Although  James,  about  a  week  following  our  salute, 
was  obliged  to  return  to  Dublin  to  attend  his  plundering  parlia¬ 
ment,  yet  has  he  left  behind  the  whole  of  his  power.  On  every 
side,  from  every  point  of  the  compass,  does  it  beset  us.  Look 
north.  About  five  miles  down  the  river  stands  Culmore  fort, 
formerly  our  only  hope  of  communication  with  the  broad  Lough 
and  the  open  sea  ;  now  is  it  in  the  hands  of  the  foe.  Between 
us  and  it,  Kilkenny  Butler,  and  his  Kilkenny  men,  guard  the 
river.  Southward  you  see  Ballowgry  hill.  There  prance  Lord 
Galmoy’s  horse.  Over  him,  Lord  Gormanstown  holds  his  mag¬ 
azine  ;  and,  were  it  daylight,  you  could  see  Lord  Clare’s  yellow 
flag  streaming  in  the  same  direction.  Turn  again.  Yonder,  in 
the  sheriff’s  ground,  lie  Lords  Louth  and  Slane.  Near  them, 
Bellew  from  Duleek,  Fingal,  and  Fagan  of  Filtrim.  Looking 
back,  towards  the  Lough,  Clancarty  keeps  Brook  Hall,  and 
O’Neill’s  dragoons  the  opposite  shore — Gordon  O’Neill,  the  son 
of  the  accursed  Sir  Phelim  1 

“  At  the  other  sides  of  the  city,  and  far  and  near  around 
them,  are  commanders  and  forces  of  as  high  names  and  as  fear¬ 
ful  recollections.  Down  from  Tara’s  hill,  Plunket  has  led  his 
horse.  From  Tredagh  rushes  Lord  Dungan’s  army.  Tyrconnel’s 
from  the  land  of  the  Fitzgeralds.  Luttrell’s  from  King’s  county. 
Lord  Dillon’s  heir  comes  to  us  from  Roscommon  ;  young  Talbot 
from  Kildare  ;  Galmoy  from  the  Barrow  ;  and  Wauhup  and 
Buchan  from  the  wilds  of  Iuverary.  Cork  sends  us  the  old 
M  icCartymore  ;  Glenwood,  the  Hagans  ;  Donegal,  the  tall  Gal- 
loghers ;  and  yon  bleak  Inishowen,  old  Caheir’s  demesne,  an 
O’Dogherty  still.  I  have  named  but  half  ;  yet,  even  this  sounds 
an  overwhelming  array.” 


306 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“It  does,  indeed,”  said  Evelyn  ;  “but  is  it  not  now  too  late 
to  say  so  ?” 

“  Well  may  we  exclaim,”  continued  Mr.  Walker,  not  noticing 
Evelyn’s  remark,  and  as  if  really  impressed,  for  the  first  time, 
with  the  magnitude  of  the  responsibility  he  had  incurred — “  well 
may  we  exclaim,  in  the  phrase  of  our  liturgy,  1  There  is  none 
other  that  fighteth  for  us,  but  only  thou,  O  God!’  Youth,  it 
does  beget  some  confusion  in  me,  and  some  disorder  among  the 
people,  when  we  look  about  us,  and  see  what  we  are  doing.  Our 
enemies  all  about  us  ;  and  such  friends  as  have  not  yet  gone, 
still  running  away  from  us.  A  garrison  composed  of  poor  people, 
frightened  from  their  own  homes,  and  more  fit  to  hide  themselves 
than  to  face  an  enemy.  No  persons  of  any  experience  in  war 
amongst  us  ;  and  those  who  were  sent  to  assist  us,  flying  from 
the  first  sight  of  the  place.  But  few  horse  to  sally  out  with, 
and  no  forage.  No  engineers  to  instruct  us  in  our  works.  No 
fireworks.  Not  so  much  as  a  hand-grenade  to  annoy  the  enemy. 
Not  a  gun  well  mounted  in  the  whole  town.  Thirty  thousand 
mouths  to  feed,  and  not  above  ten  days’  provision  for  them,  in 
the  opinion  of  our  former  governors.  Several  leaving  us  every 
day,  and  exposing  our  situation  and  our  councils  to  the  foe  ;  that 
foe  so  active  in  endeavoring  to  divide  us,  and  so  athirst  and 
hungry  for  my  own  betraying.  So  numerous,  so  powerful,  and 
so  inveterate  withal  !  God  be  our  shield,  I  say  !  The  poor 
Israelites,  at  the  Red  Sea,  stood  not  in  sorer  trouble.” 

“  If  so,  Mr.  Walker,  and  if  you  really  think  §0-,  of  what  use 
can  be  the  conviction  and  avowal  of  this  danger,  unless  you  de¬ 
termine  to  avert  it?”  demanded  Evelyn. 

“  How  ?”  asked  the  governor,  gravely. 

“  How  but  by  accepting  the  favorable  terms  of  surrender  that 
even  yet  are  open  to  you.  That  come  into  the  city  almost  every 
day,  inclosed  in  a  blind  shell,  sent  by  an  emissary,  or  in  some 
shape  or  other.  And  do  not  these  terms  promise  you,  on  the 
word  of  a  prince,  perfect  toleration — nay,  protection  of  religious 
opinion,  of  property,  and  life — forgiveness  of  the  past — freedom 
for  the  future  ?” 

“  Ay,  young  man,  thus  they  promise.  But,  oh,  that  promise  1 
He  that  would  depend  his  life  on  a  rush  may  trust  it.  Not  I ; 
I,  who  am  especially  marked  down  for  vengeance !  I,  their 
single  foe — their  confusion  and  shame !  I,  a  heretic  priest,  in 
their  blaspheming  mouths — with  whom  no  faith  is  to  be  held. 
The  word  of  a  prince  !  Yes,  I  remember  that  cant — that  sick 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


307 


ening  echo  ;  I  remember  it  as  the  charm  that  too  long  lulled  us 
asleep,  until  thieves  stole  to  our  bedsides,  and  awoke  us  with 
their  hands  on  our  throttles,  boasting  permission  from  the  very 
lips  that  had  spoken  those  words  to  our  credulous  senses.  Toler¬ 
ation  !  such  as  the  tiger  gives  the  herd.  No  ;  think  not  1  spoke 
out  plainly  before  you,  because  I  was  dsquieted  with  what  I 
have  done,  or  afraid  of  what  I  have  to  do.  Good-night  ! — re¬ 
tire  to  your  bed,  and  court  slumber  ;  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  your 
watch  comes  to-morrow  night — adieu  !”  He  turned  hastily  along 
the  wall,  and  Evelyn  soon  heard  his  “  All’s  well !”  echoed  from 
post  to  post  round  the  city.  Evelyn  also  turned  from  the  walls, 
deeply  revolving  the  new  light  in  which  he  had  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  governor.  He  did  not,  however,  bend  his  steps 
homeward,  as  Mr.  Walker  had  advised,  but  to  a  house  next  his 
uncle’s,  in  which,  unknown  to  Mrs.  Evelyn,  Edmund  occupied 
quarters  as  his  nominal  prisoner. 

Although  the  pressure  of  more  public  and  important  events 
has,  for  some  time,  kept  us  silent  regarding  the  private  affairs  of 
certain  of  our  friends,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  these  affairs 
remained  altogether  stationary,  or  that  we  were  altogether  indif¬ 
ferent  to  their  progress.  In  fact,  it  was  because  we  continued 
well  aware  how  they  went  on,  that  we  have  allowed  ourselves 
to  omit  recent  allusion  to  them  ;  particularly  as  we  were  mean¬ 
time  employed  in  reporting  other  matters,  upon  which  depended, 
and  upon  which  still  depend,  the  final  turn  of  good  or  bad  for¬ 
tune  to  the  individuals  in  whom  we  are  interested.  It  was 
because  we  knew,  that,  from  the  second  day  of  Edmund’s  coming 
into  Derry,  Evelyn  had  constantly  brought  his  prisoner  comfort, 
in  the  person  of  a  young  lady  he  was  well  pleased  to  see.  All 
the  past  forgotten,  or  the  happy  part  of  it  only  remembered, 
Esther  and  Edmund  had  thus  enjoyed,  in  the  society  of  their 
brother,  uninterrupted  dreams  of  a  delightful  future  ;  while  Eve¬ 
lyn  laid  before  them  his  own  hopes  of  happiness,  and,  now  and 
then,  successfully  prevailed  on  them — no  easy  task — to  discuss 
them  with  him.  Previous  to  the  actual  besieging  of  Derry,  ad¬ 
vice  had  come  from  Eva  that  she  was  well,  at  home,  and  her 
father  in  good  health.  In  fact,  circumstances  considered,  the 
lovers  were  as  well  off  as  any  words  of  ours  could  describe 
them  ;  at  the  same  time  that  a  continued  report  of  their  senti¬ 
ments,  or  of  the  scenes  between  them,  might  prove,  as  it  before 
happened,  too  difficult  for  us  to  manage  ;  or,  had  we  attempted 
it,  too  monotonous  to  the  reader. 


308 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


But  on  this  night,  some  conversation  took  place  between  Eve¬ 
lyn  and  M’Donnell,  which  should  be  noticed. 

“  Your  air  is  melancholy,”  said  Evelyn,  as  he  entered. 

“And  my  heart,  too,  Evelyn.” 

“  Why  now  more  than  ever  ?” 

“  I  must  have  your  permission  to  answer  fully.  Since  politics 
divided  our  public  opinions,  and  particularly  since  we  became 
placed,  with  respect  to  each  other,  in  the  strange  political  rela¬ 
tions  we  at  present  hold,  it  has  been  my  care  not  to  make  a 
single  allusion  to  passing  events.  Now,  however,  they  so  closely 
press  our  private  interests  and  feelings,  that  I  cannot  explain  to 
you  why  I  am  thus  sorrowful,  unless  you  are  willing  to  hear  me 
allude  to  them.” 

“  Perfectly  willing  I  am.  Proceed,  with  all  license.” 

“I  begin  then  by  expressing  my  confirmed  belief  that  this  city 
cannot  long  hold  out  against  its  besiegers.” 

"  Such  is  my  own  opinion,  to  whatever  it  may  lead.  We 
speak,  of  course,  confidentially.” 

“  Of  course.  My  only  wonder  is,  that  it  has  held  out  so 
long.” 

**  I  agree  with  you.  It  is  by  no  means  a  fortress.  It  stands 
on  a  sloping  ground,  exposed  on  every  side  to  the  fire  of  the 
enemy  ;  for  the  walls  are,  at  no  point,  more  than  twenty-five 
feet  high,  in  some  points  but  fourteen.  As  the  summit  of  the 
town  rises  two  hundred  feet  above  the  water,  the  walls  cannot, 
thus,  screen  an  eighth  part  of  its  elevation.  Even  if  it  were  a 
fortified  place,  the  French,  who  direct  this  siege,  are  good  engi¬ 
neers  and  formidable  besiegers ;  witness  what  they  have  done 
in  the  Low  Countries.  I  repeat,  I  can  altogether  but  express 
my  surprise  as  to  what  they  are  doing  here  at  present.” 

“  Into  their  hands,  and  those  of  the  Irish  army,  it  must,  how¬ 
ever,  soon  fall.  But,  Evelyn,  never,  I  fear,  by  capitulation.  At 
all  events,  not  by  one  timely  enough  to  insure,  according  to  the 
usages  of  war,  good  and  safe  terms  to  the  garrison  and  inhabit¬ 
ants.” 

“  Of  that  I  have  thought,  too,  M’Donnell.” 

“  Let  me  take  the  freedom  to  observe,  that  the  holding  out 
of  Derry — indeed,  its  holding  out,  in  the  teeth  of  terms  negoti¬ 
ated  by  its  most  respectable  citizens,  and  those  who  ought  to 
have  been  the  most  influential  of  its  garrison — against  pledges 
of  good  faith,  given  and  taken,  has  been  the  work  of  men  whose 
uncompromising  prejudices,  and  whose  fear  of  retribution,  left 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


309 


them  no  other  resource.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  forlorn  hope  of  a 
shattered  and  baffled  party,  reduced  to  one  last  and  desperate 
chance  of  escape  or  death,  of  revenge  or  self-destruction.” 

“  Your  comments  are  severe,  M’Donnell.  But  go  on  ;  apply 
your  reasoning  more  closely.” 

“  Too  severe,  Evelyn  ?  Come,  come  ;  I  only  meant  to  say, 
that  we,  the  native,  undisciplined,  unarmed,  and  despised  force  of 
the  country,  have,  alone  and  unassisted,  beat  you,  inch  by  inch, 
from  the  borders  of  your  northern  province,  into  the  gates  of 
Derry.  Alone  and  unassisted,  for  the  French  re-enforcement 
and  supplies,  trifling  as  both  are,  did  not  reach  us  till  we  had 
done  that  good  service.  So,  pardon  me  ;  no  more  did  I  wish  to 
say  ;  and  if  it  is  disagreeable,  I  regret  I  have  said  so  much 
Now  to  my  argument. 

“  The  hatred,  bigotry,  and,  I  may  add,  despair,  which,  in  the 
face  of  treaties  and  honorable  confidence,  have  shut  your  gates 
against  King  James,  will,  I  fear,  keep  them  shut,  while  safe  and 
advantageous  proposals  are  still  made  to  you,  and  until  the  time 
has  lapsed  for  continuing  to  make  them.  Derry  must  then  fall 
by  blockade  or  storm  ;  or  else  surrender  at  discretion.  In  either 
case,  au  enraged  and  ungovernable  soldiery  will  pour  into  its 
streets  and  houses,  and  act  almost  at  pleasure.  Do  you  now 
guess  what  I  would  drive  at  ?” 

“  I  fear  I  do.” 

“  Do  you  think  of  no  dear  being  whose  safety  should,  in  such 
a  crisis,  be  cared  for  ?  Gracious  God,  Evelyn  1”  he  continued, 
rising  in  much  emotion,  “  in  such  a  terrible  day,  have  you  no 
fears  for  Esther  ?” 

“  I  have,  M’Dounell :  nor  are  they  newly  come  in*o  my  heart. 
What  is  to  be  done  for  her  ?” 

“  You  will  not,  surely,  await  the  arrival  of  the  danger  to  pro¬ 
vide  against  it ;  you  are  anxious  to  place  her  out  of  peril  as  soon 
as  possible  ?” 

“  To-night,  if  I  could.  But  have  you  thought  how  ?” 

“  I  fear,  Evelyn,  that  my  answer  may  seem — I  know  not  what 
— selfish,  perhaps.  Or  that,  from  its  nature,  you  may  think  I 
proposed  this  case  as  much  in  calculation  as  in  true  affection. 
But  no  ;  we  understand  each  other  ;  and  without  any  such  fear, 
I  will  speak  openly  to  you.” 

“  Do  so.  I  can  never  wrong  you.” 

“  Mark  me,  then.  As  the  niece  of  an  alderman  of  Derry, 
and  as  the  sister  of  one  of  its  garrison,  poor  Esther  would  meet 


310 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


little  respect  As  the  wife  of  a  man  in  arms  for  King  James, 
she  would  be  protected.  Let  her  assume  that  character  ;  let  me, 
by  virtue  of  a  former  arrangement — right,  I  may  almost  say — 
once  call  her  my  wedded  wife,  and — apart  from  the  good-will  of 
my  friends — then  show  me  the  man,  friend  or  foe,  who  dares, 
but  with  a  glance,  aggrieve  her  ?” 

“  Your  hand,  M’Donnell  ;  and  accept  my  approval  of  a  still 
freer  and  safer  course.  When  you  make  Esther  yours,  fly  with 
her  from  Derry.  I  give  you  back  your  parole  ;  you  are  no 
longer  a  prisoner.  Take  her  far  from  even  the  prebence  of 
danger.  Make  us  both  doubly  sure.  Take  her  to  Eva,  at  Glen- 
arriff ;  and  there  yon  can  all  rest  in  peace.  For  myself,  my  heart 
and  mind  will  be  at  peace,  too,  though  distant  from  you  ;  though 
obliged,  by  the  stern  duties  of  my  situation,  to  face  the  storm, 
and,  perhaps,  fall  in  it.” 

“  Dear  Evelyn,  I  cannot,  will  not  speak  a  word  to  turn  you 
from  the  path — dangerous  as  it  may  be,  and  hostile  as  it  is  to 
me — of  an  honorable  gentleman — of  a  soldier.  But  do  not  fore¬ 
bode  ill.  Do  not  imagine  a  misery  that,  during  our  lives,  should 
shadow  the  joy  of  Esther,  Eva,  and  Edmund,  Oui  happiness 
must  be  mutually  participated,  or  not  worth  the  name.  As  to 
the  rest,  I  thank  you,  Evelyn,”  wringing  his  hand  ;  “brother  in 
the  heart  and  at  the  fireside,  though  in  the  field  my  foe,  I  thank 
you.” 

“  The  great  difficulty,”  resumed  Evelyn,  as  his  strong  emotion 
abated,  “  will  be  to  procure  an  officiating  minister.  The  Pro¬ 
testant  clergymen,  of  different  sects,  residing  in  this  city,  we  can¬ 
not  ask.” 

“  Some  Roman  Catholic  priests  must  be  attached  to  the  be¬ 
sieging  army,”  said  Edmund  ;  “  but  how  get  one  of  them  even 
near  the  walls  ?  And  Esther  and  I  can  leave  Derry  only  as 
husband  and  wife.  Suppose  Eva  were  summoned  hither,  with 
our  old  clerical  relative  ?  They  might  remain  safe  abroad  until 
we  could  communicate  with  them  ;  and  they  would  then  venture 
more  for  us  than  strangers.” 

“  As  great  a  difficulty  will  arise  in  conveying  an  intimation 
to  Eva,”  resumed  Evelyn  ;  “  but  let  us  consider  it.  And  now, 
let  us  pursue  this  conference  in  a  walk  along  the  wAls.  ’Tis  a 
fine  night  ;  the  moon  shines  clear  ;  and  my  spirits  require  the 
open  air.” 

They  left  Edmund’s  quarters,  and  ascended  the  steps  of 
Bishop’s  gate  ;  the  never-to-be-forgotten  spot,  from  which  Derry 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


311 


sent  her  first  conclusive  answer  to  the  summons  of  James.  It 
has  since  been  rebuilt,  by  the  way,  into  a  triumphal  arch,  with 
a  sculptured  head  of  that  sovereign  on  the  outside,  and  with  one 
of  his  successor  on  the  inside  ;  the  former  hanging,  most  dolo¬ 
rously,  his  family  lip  ;  the  latter  frowning  over  a  tremendous 
hooked  nose  ;  and  both  features  seeming  to  be  the  only  ones 
that  the  artist  was  able  or  willing  to  insist  on  as  likenesses. 

Evelyn  paused  a  short  time  over  the  gate. 

“  Before  we  renew  our  topic,  M’Donnell,”  he  said,  “  I  must 
betray  a  little  trust  to  you.  Under  us,  and  at  the  works  out¬ 
side  Bishop’s  gate,  strong  pickets  are  this  night  stationed,  in 
apprehension  of  an  attack,  directed  against  the  ravelin  you  see 
below,  and  the  embankment  at  the  other  post — to  be  headed, 
as  rumor  goes,  by  a  strong  party  of  our  old  friends,  the  Rappa- 
rees,  who,  under  some  arrangement  or  other,  have  lately  become 
attached  to  the  besieging  army.” 

“  I  thought,  when  we  last  met  them,  they  seemed,  in  your 
opinion,  collecting  their  scattered  forces,  after  the  affair  at  your 
house,  for  a  retreat  to  the  south.” 

“  So,  indeed,  I  then  thought.  But  you  remember  the  smug¬ 
gler  that  took  us  to  Ballintoy  ?  On  board  that  vessel  I  saw 
the  face  of  Rory-na-chopple,  and  distinctly  heard  the  voice  of 
his  captain  sounding  from  the  cabin.  Doubtless,  the  rogues 
were  then  getting  round  the  coast,  to  try  their  chance  in  the 
fighting  and  scrambling  about  Coleraine,  and  afterwards  on  the 
Finn- Water.” 

While  Evelyn  spoke,  the  voices  of  the  picket,  under  them, 
which,  since  their  ascent  to  the  walls,  had  not  been  very  quiet, 
grew  boisterous  in  mirth,  and,  amid  all,  the  tinkling  of  a  harp 
was  heard.  Edmund  started. 

“  Hush  !”  he  said,  “  that  is  Carolan’s  finger,  if  Carolan  be  a 
living  man.” 

They  listened,  and  were  confirmed  in  the  opinion  by  hearing 
the  musician  strike  up  Carolan’s  celebrated  “  Receipt,”  and  ac¬ 
company  it  with  his  voice. 

“  Heaven  befriends  us,  Evelyn,”  continued  M’Donnell,  “  Caro¬ 
lan  can  have  come  to  the  walls  of  Derry  only  on  a  mission  to 
us  ;  and  he  shall  be  our  envoy  to  Eva.  Speak  to  him  ;  you  can 
safely  do  so.  But  first  let  me  write  a  line — await  my  return, 
here.” 

When  he  came  back  with  the  note,  Evelyn  hailed  Carolan  ; 
M’Donnell  not  appearing  from  the  walls.  The  harper  instantly 


312 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


saluted  his  old  acquaintance  by  name,  inquiring  if  all  his  friends 
in  Derry  were  well. 

“  All  ;  but  how  came  you  here,  Carolan  V ’ 

“  Myself  knows  never  a  know,  sir  ;  these  good-fellows 
brought  me.” 

“  Please  your  honor,  captain/’  said  the  sergeant  of  the  party, 
“  we  found  him  sleeping  within  our  lines,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
town,  and  thought  he  might  be  a  spy.” 

“  That  would  be  hard  for  me,  Captain  Evelyn,  as  you  know,” 
resumed  Carolan  ;  “  a  man  without  an  eye  in  his  head  makes  a 
bad  look-out.” 

“Yes,  sir.  He  says  he  is  blind,  and  only  a  travelling  harp- 
player,  benighted  and  tired.  So,  if  all’s  as  he  says,  in  the  day¬ 
light  he  may  go  his  way,  again.  Meantime,  he  consents  to  play 
us  a  tune  or  so,  till  morning,”  said  the  sergeant. 

“  I  can  assure  you  that  the  poor  young  man  gives  a  true  ac¬ 
count  of  himself,”  continued  Evelyn  ;  “  and  it  would  be  cruelty 
to  detain  him  outside  the  walls  so  long.  Let  him  in,  if  you  do 
not  let  him  depart.” 

“  Please  your  honor,  that’s  against  orders.  But  he  may  go 
away,  if  he  likes,  on  your  word,  sir,”  replied  the  sergeant. 

“  Very  well  ;  I  will  just  descend  to  shake  hands  with  him.” 

With  much  caution  the  gate  was  opened  to  Evelyn  ;  he  clasp¬ 
ed  Carolan’s  hand,  and  left  in  it  the  crumpled  paper  Edmund  had 
written. 

“  God  bless  you,  sir,  for  taking  the  poor  harper’s  hand,  on 
his  wild  road,  and  bidding  him  luck  and  speed.  And  now  you 
won’t  refuse  this  little  clarseech  I  offer  you,  as  a  parting  token. 
It  wil'  be  of  no  use  to  me  till  I  get  home  again,  to  the  fair 
south,  and  there  1  have  another  before  me.  Take  it,  Captain 
Evelyn  ;  and  when  you  touch  its  wires,  remember  the  giver.” 

Carolan  went  his  way  ;  Evelyn,  not  finding  Edmund  on  the 
wall,  followed  him  to  his  lodgings  ;  and  gave  him  the  little  harp, 
as  the  person  for  whom  it  was  really  intended.  Both,  however, 
believing  that  Carolan  must  have  left  the  clarseech  for  some¬ 
thing  more  than  a  token,  closely  examined  it,  and  secret  hinges 
and  a  spring  were,  indeed,  found  in  the  sounding-board,  which, 
at  last,  yielding  to  their  pressure,  showed  two  letters,  one  for 
Edmund,  and  another  for  his  friend,  both  written  by  Eva.  Both 
told  of  good  health  ;  of  the  perfect  tranquillity  of  her  part  of 
the  country  ;  but  what  was  scarce  less  important  to  Edmund, 
of  the  implacable  anger  of  Lord  Antrim  for  his  late  attributed 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


813 


misconduct.  The  young'  men  parted  for  the  night,  just  as  a 
dropping  fire  of  musketry,  mingled  with  cheers  from  the  skir¬ 
mishers,  and  cries  from  the  walls,  were  heard  through  the  town. 

Hastily  mounting  the  wall  over  Butcher’s  gate,  Evelyn  looked 
down  upon  a  gentle  slope  of  land  that  ran  towards  a  line  of 
eminence  called  the  Bishop’s  Demesne.  But,  by  this  time,  the 
firing  had  ceased,  and  he  could  only  see  a  party  of  horse,  be¬ 
longing  to  the  town,  sweeping  furiously  round  the  heights,  as  if 
in  pursuit  of  an  enemy  ;  at  the  same  time  that  three  or  four 
infantry  approached  with  a  prisoner  towards  the  gate.  He 
descended  ;  a  loud  knocking  was  heard. 

“  Who  knocks  ?  and  the  word  ?”  demanded  the  sentinel. 

“  Friends,”  and  “  Orange  is  the  word,”  he  was  answered. 
'‘We  are  part  of  Captain  Michelburn’s  picket,  and  here  we  have 
taken  a  little  Rapparee.” 

The  gate  wras  opened  ;  the  soldiers  entered  with  their  prison¬ 
er  ;  and  Evelyn  recognized,  though  scarcely  recognizable,  his 
Uncle  Jerry,  “all  tattered  and  torn” — we  cannot  add,  “all 
shaven  and  shorn.”  His  hair  and  beard  were  of  a  Rapparee 
growth  ;  while  the  blue  kilt-like  kind  of  sailor’s  dress  he  always 
wore,  was  rent  into  ribands  ;  his  blue  breeches  and  stockings 
full  of  holes  ;  and  one  shoe  gone. 

“  Are  you  all  merry  fellows  here  ?”  he  asked,  the  moment  he 
had  passed  the  gate. 

“  March  on  to  the  guardhouse,  you  Rapparee  thief,”  cried  the 
soldiers. 

“I’m  no  Rapparee,  I  say  again,”  cried  Jerry.  “  They  but 
took  me  on  a  visit  with  them.  Not  that  I  mean  a  word  to  their 
dispraise,  for  hearty  lads  they  are,  and  like  a  commodore  they 
treated  me.” 

“  Move  on  as  you  are  told,”  urged  his  guard. 

“  Why,  I  can’t,”  he  replied  ;  don’t  you  see  I’ve  got  a  rudder 
shot  away  ?  Give  me  one  cup  of  canary.” 

“  March  J”  roared  a  corporal,  “  or  ” — presenting. 

“  Stop,  man !  hear  reason.  I’m  no  Rapparee,  but  a  loyal  sub¬ 
ject  of  the  king’s  gracious  majesty.” 

“  What  king  ?” 

“  What  king  ?”  repeated  Jerry,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment  at 
the  simplicity  of  the  question.  What  king  but  our  own  king— 
the  king  of  England  1  Here  be  a  serious  set  of  fellows  to  ask 
such  a  matter.  “  Where’s  your  officer  ?”  limping  up  to  Evelyn. 
“  Ahoy  !  dear  nephew  1  afloat  yet  ?  Not  burnt  or  sunk,  as  I 

14 


314 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


thought  you  were  ?  Well  ;  this  makes  up  for  all  1  Yon  won't 
refuse  a  grapple  ;  no,  that  you  won't,”  smacking  his  hand.  11  So 
let  this  galley-foist  crew  sheer  olf :  you  and  I,  lad,  in  any  storm. 
And,  I  say,  nephew,  let's  go  below,  and  have  a  twist  at  your 
locker,  for  I  haven’t  been  so  run  out  of  grog,  and  so  near  serious¬ 
ness,  since  I  left  shore.” 

“  At  least,  sir,  I  will  try  and  protect  you  from  the  rude  treat¬ 
ment  to  which  you  have  exposed  yourself.  Corporal,  this  is, 
indeed,  my  uncle,  the  brother  of  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn,  forced  from 
my  house  by  the  Rapparees.  I  will  be  his  surety  for  loyal  in¬ 
tentions  and  peaceable  demeanor,  if  you  give  him  into  my 
charge  ;  and  I  earnestly  request  that  favor  at  your  hands  ” 

The  soldiers  assented  :  and  Jerry,  supported  by  Evelyn, 
limped  to  Edmund's  quarters  ;  eagerly  inquiring,  on  the  way, 
when  he  knew  his  destination,  if  the  hearty  fellow,  the  dumb 
lad,  was  on  board. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  friends  remained  very  anxious  about  their  message  to 
Eva  ;  weeks  elapsed,  and  no  answer  came.  This  suspense  was 
most  painful,  for  two  reasons.  They  feared  either  that  Carolan 
had  been  intercepted,  searched,  and  perhaps  murdered,  on  his 
way  to  Glenarriff ;  or  that  Derry  would  be  taken  sword  in  hand, 
before  Eva  replied  to  their  summons,  and  Esther  consequently 
exposed  to  the  dangers  they  anticipated. 

On  the  latter  point,  however,  they  need  not  have  been  so  ap¬ 
prehensive.  To  their  surprise  as  well  as  gratification,  the  city 
continued  to  keep  its  besiegers  in  check.  And  the  reader  will 
join  in  their  astonishment,  after  recollecting  the  true  statement 
jf  its  preparations  and  resources,  given  by  Mr.  Walker,  and  of 
is  situation  and  the  strength  of  its  walls,  alluded  to  by  Evelyn. 
That  it  should  have  been  able  to  make  more  than  the  faintest  show 
of  defence  is,  indeed,  all  circumstances  considered,  unaccountable. 
Had  it  stood  in  these  later  days,  in  the  place  of  Burgos  or  of 
Badajos,  we  know  that  Derry  must  have  capitulated  in  a  few 
hours,  or  else  have  been  battered  and  burnt  into  a  heap  of  smok¬ 
ing  rubbish.  Nor  are  we,  by  implication,  to  attribute  to  an  im- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


31 * 


aginary  backwardness  in  the  military  science  and  prowess  of  its 
own  day,  the  want  of  skill  or  energy  evinced  by  its  besieger. 
Louis  XIV ,  or  William  III.,  would  have  made  of  it  as  light  a 
morning’s  work  as  Wellington,  or  any  hostile  contemporary  at 
present  could  ;  witness,  out  of  a  list  of  instances,  what  both 
these  sovereigns  did,  in  two  successive  campaigns,  at  the  fortress 
and  castle  of  Namur.  We  can  only  surmise,  then,  that  the  few 
thousand  French  before  Derry  were  totally  inexperienced  in  the 
military  knowledge  necessary  to  their  service,  and  for  which 
their  countrymen,  in  general,  had,  even  at  that  time,  so  great  a 
name.  As  to  their  Irish  allies,  a  body  of  undisciplined  peasants, 
just  come  into  the  field,  we  must  consider  them,  apart  from  the 
plain  work  of  charging  in  onslaught,  completely  out  of  the  ques¬ 
tion,  or,  at  all  events,  as  much  so  in  regularly  carrying  on  a 
siege,  as  their  equally  inexperienced  enemies  would  have  proved 
in  resisting  any  such  operation,  vigorously  and  systematically 
directed. 

But  it  was,  perhaps,  the  object  of  the  besiegers  to  starve 
Derry  into  submission.  The  increasing  scarcity  of  food  now 
began,  indeed,  to  threaten  sufficient  misfortune.  Completely 
hemmed  in,  as,  on  every  side,  they  were,  scarcely  any  thing  had 
been  added  to  the  first  supplies  found  in  the  stores  at  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  siege  ;  and  day  by  day  these  fearfully  decreased. 
The  bad  omen  of  slaughtering  the  horses  of  the  garrison  soon 
made  its  appearance  ;  and  peremptory  orders  were  issued  that 
every  house  should  send  in  its  stock  of  private  provisions,  to  be 
joined  to  what  remained  of  the  public  one,  and  both  to  be 
served  out  in  small  daily  portions,  to  each  individual  within  the 
walls,  rank,  sex,  and  age  undistinguished  in  the  arrangement. 
Edmund  found  himself  limited  to  one  coarse  meal  in  the  day. 
But  it  was  not  his  own  situation  that  smote  his  soul  with  horror. 
He  knew  that  the  woman  he  loved  was  exposed,  in  bad  health 
and  wretched  spirits,  to  the  same  privation  ;  and  as,  during  this 
sad  economy,  he  looked  on  her  pallid  cheek  and  sunken  eye,  the 
lover’s  blood  curdled  to  think  that  hunger — the  most  wretched 
and  humiliating  of  mortal  evils — was  now  her  spoiler. 

Whilst  he  and  Evelyn  met  from  time  to  time,  and  gazed  i 
silence  on  each  other’s  gradually  wasting  features,  this  sentiment 
commonly  felt,  though  never  expressed,  caused  them  to  specu¬ 
late  with  increased  anxiety  on  Eva’s  remissness  in  sending  an 
answer.  They  became  assured  that  poor  Carolan  had  already 
fallen  a  victim  to  his  disinterested  zeal,  and  that  they  had  noth- 


316 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ing  to  expect  for  Esther.  But  one  night,  as  they  Walked  mourn 
fully  along  the  walls,  the  blessed  tones  of  his  harp  were  again 
heard  near  the  gate  below  ;  and,  stooping  over,  they  recognized 
him  surrounded,  as  before,  by  some  of  the  men  who,  in  his  for¬ 
mer  visit,  had  attended  to  him,  but  who  now,  rendered  less  sen¬ 
sitive  to  sweet  sounds  by  the  grumbling  of  their  stomachs,  did 
not  seem  disposed  to  treat  him  kindly. 

“  Begone,”  said  the  sergeant ;  “  I  say  you  can  have  no  busi¬ 
ness  here,  unless  you  come  as  a  spy ;  “  and  that  I  said  before. 
You,  Corporal  Sharpe — you  acted  but  as  a  bad  vidette  to  bring 
the  bliud  beggar  to  our  walls.” 

“  I  ask  but  to  see  Captain  Evelyn  in  your  presence,”  replied 
Carolan  ;  “  and  when  we  speak  together,  you’ll  find  I  come  on 
no  unfriendly  business.” 

“  I  am  here,  Carolan,”  cried  Evelyn,  running  down  to  the 
gate.  After  much  persuasion  with  the  officer  in  command,  he 
passed  out  to  the  harper. 

“  This,  then,'  is  all  I  have  to  say,”  resumed  Carolan,  in  a 
broken  voice,  taking  a  small  wallet  from  under  his  garment. 
“  I  bring  you — and  I  have  brought  it  through  the  Irish  lines, 
with  some  hazard — a  meal  of  Christian  food,  and  a  flask  of 
cheering  wine  for  your  sister,  Mistress  Esther  Evelyn.” 

“  Share  !  share  !”  exclaimed  the  soldiers,  as  Evelyn  accepted 
it  ;  “  all  provisions  are  common  to  the  garrison.” 

“No,  sirs — shame,  shame,  to  ask  it!”  cried  Carolan.  “It  is 
for  a  sickly,  a  young  and  beautiful  lady — it  is  to  cherish  the 
failing  blood  in  her  heart,  and  give  her  life  a  day  longer.  I 
have  brought  it  to  your  gate,  in  hunger  and  in  thirst,  myself. 
The  road  was  long,  and  my  own  tongue  cleaved  to  my  palate 
for  want  of  food  and  drink.  I  am  this  moment  a  fatigued  and 
hungry  man,  yet  I  touched  it  not  ;  and  I  do  not  ask  to  touch 
it.  If  you  are  men,  able  to  bear  a  little  want,  let  it  go  to  the 
poor,  sick  young  lady.  You  will  never  miss  it,  and  she  will  die 
without  it :  let  her  gentle  blood  get  nourishment.  Yes,  they 
will,  Captain  Evelyn,  they  will :  hide  it,  sir,  and  take  it  to  your 
sister” 

Carolan  wept  as  he  spoke  ;  no  further  opposition  was  offered. 
Evelyn  shook  his  hand,  and  joined  Edmund.  The  little  wallet 
contained,  indeed,  some  delicate  and  nutritive  food  ;  and  secreted 
amongst  it,  the  note  that  they  had  expected  from  Eva.  After 
satisfactorily  explaining  her  long  silence,  she  informed  them  that, 
attended  by  the  old  clergyman,  she  now  rested  in  the  Irish  carafe 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


317 


and  would  try  to  meet  them  and  Esther,  ou'side  Butcher’s  gate, 
near  Columbkill’s  well,  four  nights  from  the  date  of  her  writing. 
When  the  friends  had  interchanged  hearty  congratulations  on 
this  welcome  intelligence,  Evelyn  took  up  his  wallet,  and  hast¬ 
ened  to  Esther.  He  did  not  ask  Edmund  to  taste  the  generous 
food  ;  he  would  no  more  have  done  so  than  he  would  have 
trenched  on  it  himself.  He  did  not  think  of  asking  him  ;  nor 
did  Edmund  think  of  tasting ;  yet  both  were  hungry — in  the 
hearts  of  both,  nature  yearned  for  a  wonted  relief.  It  may  be 
said  that  this  is  a  vulgar  illustration  of  disinterested  feeling. 
Yes  ;  it  may  be  said  by  some,  who,  after  a  dainty  evening  ban¬ 
quet,  peruse  our  pages  amid  luxury  that  has  never  known  want, 
and  to  whose  privileged  ear  the  word  “  hunger”  brings  only 
coarse  or  mean  associations.  But  if  so,  we  only  wish  such  a  critic 
plunged,  with  all  speed,  into  a  besieged  city,  and  gradually  made 
acquainted  with  that  common-place  and  unceremonious  monster 
— starvation. 

Eva’s  note  being  left  in  M’Donnell’s  hands,  he  was  about  to 
destroy  it,  after  Evelyn’s  departure,  when,  at  a  side  hitherto 
supposed  to  be  blank,  he  discovered  the  following  postscript : 
“  Be  watchful  ;  for  there  is  one,  opposed  most  inveterately, 
though  unaccountably,  to  your  success,  who  seeks  admission  into 
the  city  to  confound  you.” 

To  whom  did  this  allusion  apply  ?  Edmund  could  not  tell  ; 
nor,  after  hours  of  surmise,  even  imagine.  The  next  morning 
however,  gave  him  some  inkling  on  the  point. 

Jerry,  now  his  fellow-lodger  and  messmate,  had  been  looking 
out  of  the  window,  when — but  let  us  interrupt  ourselves,  to  say 
a  few  digressive  words  about  Jerry.  Hitherto  he  had  pretty 
well  obeyed  the  injunction  laid  upon  him  by  his  nephew,  to  ab¬ 
sent  himself  from  his  brother’s  house,  and  even  from  the  streets 
of  the  town,  in  which  he  might  be  likely  to  meet  Mr.  Paul 
Evelyn  or  his  lady.  Content  with  singing  his  favorite  s°a-songs, 
together  with  some  scraps  of  rude  verse  he  had  lately  picked  up 
among  the  Rapparees,  sipping  whatever  liquor — water  excepted 
— might  be  placed  in  his  way,  he  was,  perhaps,  the  only  man  in 
Derry  who  ate  his  one  scanty  meal  a  day  with  Christian  resigna¬ 
tion  and  indifference.  Indeed,  he  seemed  just  as  careless  of  the 
state  of  affairs  around  him,  as  of  their  effects  on  himself,  no  mat¬ 
ter  in  what  shape  those  effects  might  visit  him.  His  little  paunch 
decreased  ;  the  fresh  color  left  his  cheek  ;  worse  than  all,  the 
wound  in  his  foot  grew  bad  and  obstinate — he  cared  not.  He 


318 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


was  told  that,  in  a  few  days,  there  would  be  no  food  at  all  in 
the  city,  and  that  the  people  either  must  starve  to  death,  or  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  wild  Papists.  “  Be  not  serious/  he  said  ; 
“  what  know  I  of  it  ?  Starved  ?  merry  men  never  starved.  Pa¬ 
pists  ?  I  have  known  of  some  hearty  fellows  among  them.  City 
besieged  ?  tilly-vally  ;  be  thou  hearty.” 

But,  amid  this  good-humor  with  his  lot,  and  submission  under 
the  commands  laid  upon  him,  he  was  heard,  now  and  then,  to 
mumble  a  threat  of  visitation  to  his  brother  and  his  sister-in-law. 
They  both  looked  as  well,  he  averred,  as  ever  they  had  looked, 
notwithstanding  the  general  changes  that  took  place  in  all  others. 
And  therein  lay  a  mystery  he  was  determined  to  solve.  The 
appearances  that  gave  rise  to  his  remarks  were,  indeed,  rather 
evident,  and  commented  upon,  too,  by  more  people  than  Jerry. 
Public  prayers  were  held  in  the  church  every  morning  and  even¬ 
ing  ;  at  the  proper  hours  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evelyn  regularly  passed 
by  to  join  in  them.  And  at  the  request  of  their  discarded 
brother,  Evelyn  and  Edmund  often  stood  at  the  window  to  note, 
as  they  went  along,  the  undiminished  globularity  of  Paul’s  per¬ 
son,  the  enduring  vastness  of  that  of  his  good  lady,  and  the 
sleek,  contented  character  of  the  faces  of  both.  On  tottered 
little  Paul,  patting  the  stones  with  the  gold-headed  cane  he  held 
in  one  hand,  and  grasping  in  the  other  two  huge  prayer-books, 
which  Mrs.  Evelyn  obliged  him  to  carry.  Some  paces  behind, 
the  lady  followed,  in  full  sail,  watching  him  with  a  severe  eye, 
as  a  nurse  might  watch  the  straggling  sallies  of  a  child  just 
beginning  to  walk  ;  when  they  arrived  at  church,  still  making 
him  kneel  before  her,  in  order  that  she  might  see,  and  promptly 
check,  with  a  tap  on  his  head,  or  a  pinch  at  his  arm,  Paul’s 
frequent  lapses  into  slumber,  for  which  (Jerry  said)  he  often  got 
whipped  when  he  came  home.  But  Jerry  must  not  teach  us 
digression  upon  digression. 

He  had  been  watching,  as  usual,  their  expected  progress  to 
church,  when,  instead  of  summoning  Edmund  to  see  them  pass 
by,  he  called  him  to  witness  a  loud  commotion  that  was  going 
on  at  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn’s  door  ;  the  next,  it  will  be  remembered, 
to  Edmund’s  quarters.  A  crowd  of  people,  some  soldiers,  and 
some  townsfolk,  had  collected  round  a  wild-looking,  meanly  hab¬ 
ited  young  woman,  who  seemed  eager  to  be  admitted,  and  noisy 
and  vehement  at  Mrs.  Evelyn’s  repeated  refusal  given  from  the 
window. 

“ Let  me  in  1”  screamed  the  applicant ;  “I  have  that  to  say 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


319 


to  your  husband,  which  concerns  him  and  you,  and  all  your 
family.” 

“  Away  with  thee  woman !”  answered  Mrs.  Evelyn  ;  “  or  I 
will  have  thee  sent  to  the  black-hole.  Take  her  away,  soldiers 
— how  dared  you  bring  her  hither  ?” 

The  soldiers  answered,  that  the  woman  had  come  to  the  gates 
with  a  pass  from  Lord  Kingston,  commanding  her  admission  to 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Paul  Evelyn. 

“  It  is  a  forgery,”  resumed  the  lady,  “  or  a  plot  to  murder  us. 
Take  her  away,  I  say  ;  I  know  her  well.” 

“And  I  know  you,”  continued  the  woman  ;  “we  know  one 
another.  Do  you  remember  the  word  I  spoke  to  you  the  first 
evening  we  met  ?  Let  me  in — or  listen  to  it  again.” 

Mrs.  Evelyn  shrieked,  as  if  her  recollections  were  sorely 
touched,  and  shut  down  the  window. 

“  Then  starve  !”  cried  Onagh,  now,  as  she  turned  round,  well 
known  to  Edmund  ;  “  that  was  the  word.  And  here  it  is  again 
— starve  1” 

Edmund,  recollecting  Onagh’s  previous  and  unaccountable 
hostility  to  his  union  with  Esther,  and  now  comparing  it  with 
her  anxiety  to  get  access  to  Paul,  was  struck  with  the  thought 
that  she  might  be  the  person  of  whom  Eva,  in  her  note,  warned 
him  to  stand  on  his  guard.  Acting  under  this  sudden  impression, 
he  ran  down  to  the  street,  accosted  her  civilly,  induced  her  to 
enter  the  house  along  with  him,  and  when  she  had  come  in, 
seized  her,  and,  assisted  by  Jerry,  conveyed  her  to  a  secure  cel¬ 
lar,  where,  leaving  her  a  small  portion  of  food,  they  locked  her 
up  in  darkness  and  solitude.  M’Donnell  gave  his  fellow-lodger 
some  apt  reason  for  the  proceeding,  and  engaged  him,  should  he 
himself  be  out  of  the  way,  in  a  few  days  to  restore  her  to  liberty. 

Soon  after,  Evelyn  visited  them.  Acquainting  his  friend  that 
he  was  summoned  to  attend  an  extraordinary  council,  to  be  im¬ 
mediately  held,  in  consequence  of  suspicions  entertained  by  some 
of  the  garrison  that  certain  gentlemen  of  the  corporation,  and 
even  their  worthy  governor,  Mr.  Walker,  had  not  complied  with 
the  order  to  send  in  all  their  private  stock,  but  kept  secreted  in 
their  houses  an  unpermitted  abundance,  for  their  individual  conk- 
fort  and  fattening.  Jerry,  hearing  this,  offered  himself  as  a 
presumptive  evidence,  at  the  investigation.  But  he  was  over¬ 
ruled,  and  Evelyn  went  alone. 

It  had  not  been  usual  to  permit  an  indiscriminate  assemblage 
of  persons  at  the  former  peaceable  town-councils  of  Derry.  Now 


320 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


hunger,  which  breaks  through  stone  walls,  was  every  man’s  pass¬ 
port  to  witness  debates  in  which  every  man’s  stomach  was  com¬ 
monly  interested.  Along  with  the  governor,  superior  officers, 
and  the  corporation,  a  crowd  of  haggard  countenances  thronged 
therefore,  the  hall  of  the  market-house. 

Uncle  Paul,  who,  from  his  reluctance  to  attend,  had  been 
late,  was  seated  on  an  extremity  of  the  magisterial  bench,  his 
short,  stout  legs  dangling  most  uncomfortably,  and  his  little  gray 
eyes  staring  round  in  childish  fear  (the  result  of  a  certain  con¬ 
sciousness),  as  he  leaned,  the  better  to  support  himself,  on  his 
gold-headed  cane. 

Governor  Walker  certainly  appeared  in  good  case,  as  also  did 
other  patriotic  gentlemen  of  the  corporation.  But  none  belied, 
so  much  as  Paul,  a  strict  adherence  to  the  order  for  indiscrimi¬ 
nate  starvation. 

The  rude,  because  hungry,  soldiers  made  their  statements  ; 
bluntly  named  some  they  suspected,  and  hinted  at  others.  Paul 
found  himself  involved  among  the  former,  and  Governor  Walker 
among  the  latter.  Both  were,  however,  ready  to  rebut  the  ac¬ 
cusation. 

It  was  at  the  private  request  of  Mr.  Walker,  made,  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  the  clamors  against  him,  to  an  apprentice  ensign 
in  his  confidence,  that  the  meeting  had  been  called.  Paul 
flattered  himself  his  house  exhibited  no  proof  of  guilt.  The  per¬ 
sons  who  brought  the  charges  were  ordered  to  search  the 
dwellings  of  the  accused.  They  returned,  unable  to  say  that 
they  had  not  been  in  error,  but  still  grumbling,  and  scowling  with 
their  socket  eyes  towards  the  magisterial  bench,  as  they  mut- 
tered  : 

“  Why  should  the  great  ones  be  fat,  and  poor  folk  lean  ?  If 
they  fare  as  we  do,  let  them  show  it  as  we  do.” 

Among  the  indiscriminate  throng  was  a  group  of  the  appren¬ 
tice  boys,  who,  in  consequence  of  the  leading  part  they  had 
acted,  thought  themselves  entitled  to  much  privilege,  and  there¬ 
fore  stood  near  to  the  aldermen.  James  Spike  was  at  their 
head,  sadly  altered  from  the  look  of  boyish  health  and  waggery 
he  had  shown  upon  the  day  when,  with  his  compeers,  he  scam¬ 
pered  down  the  steps  of  Ferry-quay  gate,  to  commence  the  Pro¬ 
testant  war  in  Ireland  against  King  James.  His  plump  cheek 
had  yielded  to  a  hollow  one  ;  his  ruddy  color  to  a  monotonous 
greenish  hue  ;  and  his  springing  beard  stood  forward  from  his 
chin  and  lip, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


321 


u  Each  particular  hair  on  end. 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine 

or  (to  show  <)ur  own  independent  skill  in  simile)  somewhat  of  the 
fashion  in  which  a  starved  horse  will  indicate  his  bad  feeding  by 
the  roughness  of  his  coat. 

But  Jem’s  spirit  was  not  gone.  Or  like  some  great  wits  who 
have  miserably  striven  to  die  with  a  jest  upon  their  lips,  he  still 
remembered  his  reputation  for  humor  ;  and  now  there  arose  op¬ 
portunity  for  still  supporting  it.  He  had  observed  Paul's  alarm 
during  the  proceedings  ;  he  saw  that  his  horny  lips  were  white 
with  fear.  Pallid,  he  did  not,  indeed,  grow  :  his,  was  one  of 
those  faces,  of  which,  from  a  constant  habit  of  purplish  ruddi¬ 
ness,  the  skin  at  last  becomes  stained  into  color,  and  ever  after 
remains  little  influenced  by  the  rushing  of  blood  to  the  heart. 
But  James  Spike  observed  enough  to  cause  him  to  address  his 
companions  aloud. 

“  Well,  lads,  what  say  you  to  this  matter  ?” 

“I  don’t  know,  I’m  sure,”  croaked  Will  Crookshanks. 

“  To  my  thought,  there  may  be  something  to  find  out  in  it, 
yet,”  said  Harry  Campsie,  in  a  squall ;  the  character  of  each 
young  man’s  voice  being  changed  to  its  extreme. 

“We  hoped  not  a  knowledge  of  it  from  you,  poor  Will,”  re¬ 
sumed  Jem  ;  “  but,  as  Harry  says,  there  may  be  something  to  find 
out  yet.  Look  along  this  bench.  Think  you  there  sits  on  it 
none  who  eat  more  than  a  sparrow’s  mess  for  a  meal  ?” 

“  By  the  goose,”  answered  Harry  Campsie,  “  I  see  some  who 
have  not  been  looking  at  empty  trenchers  of  late.  That’s  still 
my  cry.” 

“  And  mine,  too,”  growled  Crookshanks.  “  And  mine,  and 
mine,”  echoed  others. 

“  Note  you  the  little  alderman  at  our  elbow  ?”  questioned 
Spike,  and  the  glaring  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  Paul.  “There, 
at  the  least,  be  a  sample  of  your  great  folk,  nothing  the  worse 
for  the  standing  order.  ’Tis  plain  as  the  nose  on  one  ;  and 
never  were  noses  plainer  than  at  present,  being  the  better  part 
of  our  faces.  W ill  Crookshanks  himself  says  so.” 

“  I  do,”  said  Will  ;  “’tis  a  matter  to  be  noted.” 

“  A  good  may  come  of  it,  however,”  continued  Jem.  “  In  a 
day  or  two,  horses,  cats,  and  rats  will  be  eaten  up  ;  a  cap  of 
broad  pieces  will  scarce  buy  a  lean  mouse.  Then  must  we 
needs  fall  foul  of  each  other  ;  and  your  goodmen  fat  fellows — 

14* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


3^2 

especially  your  aldermen — shall  first  draw  lot,  by  the  rood  ! 
Skin  and  bone  would  be  but  niggard  diet :  we,  fighting  men, 
must  be  kept  on  our  limbs.  So,  harkye — ” 

He  whispered  his  companions,  keeping  a  glance  fixed  on 
Paul.  The  eyes  of  his  fellow-apprentices,  and  now  almost  oi 
the  whole  throng,  more  seriously  imitated  the  kind  of  look  Jem 
out  assumed  ;  something  between  a  bitter  grin  and  a  natural 
creeping  of  disgust  marking  their  features.  Paul,  ready  to  faint 
with  terror,  thought  that  the  leathern  lips  of  Crookshanks  quiv 
ered  in  greedy  anticipation. 

“  Ay,”  added  Jem,  “  your  aldermen  be  no  every-day  folk. 
IPs  an  honor  they  merit  to  fall  to  the  share  of  fellow-creatures, 
while  the  feasters  of  yon  churchyard  can  have  your  leaner  and 
commoner  sort  to  revel  on.” 

Paul  did  not  hear  the  conclusion  of  this  reasoning.  He  con¬ 
tinued,  since  about  the  middle  of  the  dialogue,  gradually  to  slip 
down  from  his  high  seat,  and  at  last  made  his  exit  by  a  door 
that  led  into  the  boardroom,  followed  by  a  gurgling  growl  from 
Jem  and  his  companions,  such  as  the  nursery  “buggaboo”  sends 
after  a  frightened  child. 

He  tottered  home.  After  a  prudent  peep  to  see  who  tapped, 
Mrs.  Evelyn  admitted  him.  He  sank  into  a  low  chair,  especially 
constructed  for  his  comfort.  “  Woe’s  me,  Janet !  woe’s  me  I” 
he  cried. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  asked  many  questions  before  he  could  bring  him¬ 
self  to  begin  an  explanation. 

“  Oh,  Janet,  Janet,  they  talked — ”  his  teeth  chattered,  and 
he  stopped. 

“  Courage,  and  speak  it  boldly,  man,”  herself  terrified  a  little, 
though  she  knew  not  exactly  why — “  they  talked  of  what  ?  Of 
coming  again  to  devour  our  household  stock  ?” 

“  Of  coming  to  devour  me,  Janet,  love  ! — Janet,  coney  !” 

She  stepped  back,  repeating  his  words,  in  consternation. 

“  Forsooth,  yes  ;  they  said  I  should  be  good  diet !  Oh, 
they  are  main  hungry,  Janet  ;  and  I  saw  them  look  as  though” 
— his  flesh  crept — “  oh,  Janet,  as  though  their  stomachs  yearned 
to  me  1” 

Mrs.  Evelyn  reflected  for  a  moment.  Her  thoughts  seemed 
to  give  her  a  sudden  relief. 

“  I  have  heard  of  such  doings,  Paul.  Hungry  folks  have,  ere 
now,  truly  eater  one  another.  You  must  bide  in  the  secret  vault 
till  Christian  food  comes  among  them.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


323 


“  Oil,  woe’s  me  !  woes  me  !” 

After  another  pause,  during  which  she  contemplated  her  hus¬ 
band — “  Truth  to  say,  Paul,  you  do  look  uuseemly  plump,”  Mrs. 
Evelyn  added. 

“  Do  I,  Janet,  chuck,  do  I  ?  Woe’s  me  !  woe’s  me  !” 

“And  it  were  well,”  she  continued,  her  countenance  again 
brightening  up,  whether  from  pure  pleasure  at  the  hope  of 
preserving  her  lord,  or,  in  a  degree,  at  a  recollection  how  much 
better  her  gradually  decreasing  stock  would  comfort  a  single 
regular  claimant,  we  cannot  readily  determine — “  it  were  well 
that  you  stinted  your  own  stomach,  coney,  when  you  are  safe 
hidden,  and,  day  by  day,  eat  a  little  less  and  less.  Until,  in  the 
end,  you  may  safely  walk  into  the  streets  again,  as  proper  a  man 
as  any  amongst  ’em.” 

A  knocking  was  heard  at  the  door. 

“  Oh,  Janet,  they  come  ! — haste,  haste  !” 

She  caught  him  up  in  her  arms  ;  conveyed  him  to  his  hiding- 
place  ;  returned  to  open  the  street-door,  and  admitted  Evelyn. 
He  wished  to  speak  with  his  uncle  on  business.  She  had  not 
seen  him  ;  and  she  rapidly  questioned  Evelyn  as  to  what  could 
have  happened  to  her  Paul.  He  set  out  in  quest  of  the  lost  al¬ 
derman  ;  and,  as  evening  closed,  returned  really  distressed  at  his 
uncle’s  absence.  It  is  said,  by  those  who  give  themselves  a  very 
undue  license  of  slandering  the  fair  sex,  that,  on  fit  occasions, 
ladies  can  assume  a  character  with  much  greater  success  than 
the  less  gifted  members  of  the  other  part  of  the  creation.  We 
reject  the  invidious  praise ;  although  we  are,  at  the  same  time, 
obliged  to  admit,  that  Evelyn  and  his  sister,  while  sitting,  this 
night,  by  Mrs.  Evelyn’s  side,  were  struck,  in  their  hearts,  at  the 
sincerity  of  the  grief  with  which  she  bewailed  her  husband.  He 
must  have  grown  over-valiant,  she  said,  and  joining  in  a  sally 
made  that  day,  was  doubtless  cut  off,  nay,  cut  up,  by  the  Pa¬ 
pists.  The  nephew,  though  he  did  not  think  with  her,  yet  knew 
not  what  to  think.  The  night  was  wearing  away,  when  the 
lady’s  mock  grief  became  changed  into  real  terror,  and  some  real 
suffering. 

A  tremendous  cannonading  was  heard  from  the  besiegers. 
Mrs.  Evelyn  listened  in  profound  silence  to  the  bellowing  of  the 
guns  at  a  distance,  and  to  the  nearer  din  of  crashing  houses  and 
the  screams  of  their  inmates,  as  the  balls  and  shells  thrown  into 
the  city  spread  unusual  devastation  around.  She  did  not  hope 
that  her  own  house  or  herself  rtould  escape  ;  and  she  was  correct 


324 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


in  her  foreboding.  A  large  shell,  falling  on  the  tiled  roof  over 
her,  broke  through  it,  and  lay  on  the  attic  floor  till  it  burst 
Mrs.  Evelyn,  her  nephew  and  niece,  just  had  time  to  start  up, 
at  the  noise,  when  it  did  burst — tearing  peacemeal  an  old  woman, 
who  slept  by  its  side  ;  shattering  its  way  into  the  chamber  un¬ 
derneath  ;  splitting  the  gable  of  the  house  ;  and,  as  if  the  enemy 
had  a  particular  eye  to  one  point,  another  descended,  almost  in 
the  same  direction,  till,  by  the  repeated  explosion,  the  wall  was 
rent  from  the  top  to  the  foundation,  and  the  mistress  of  the 
mansion  received,  from  a  displaced  stone,  such  a  contusion  in  the 
temple,  as,  for  some  time,  deprived  her  of  all  sense,  and,  after¬ 
wards,  of  all  her  senses. 

For  three  days  Mrs.  Evelyn  did  not  sufficiently  recover  to  un¬ 
derstand  what  had  happened,  where  she  was,  or  who  were  about 
her.  But  at  length  she  found  herself  in  a  strange  house,  whither, 
with  his  sister,  Evelyn  had  caused  the  lady  to  be  conveyed. 
Very  soon  after  her  restoration  to  reason,  she  arose  from  her 
bed,  much  to  the  surprise  of  all  ;  watched  silently  and  earnestly, 
till  the  night  fell  ;  then  quitted  her  friends  ;  procured  a  dark 
lantern  ;  issued  forth  ;  entered  her  own  ruined  dwelling  ;  locked 
the  street-door  after  her  ;  descended  to  the  kitchen  ;  locked  the 
communicating  door,  also  ;  traversed  the  range  of  cellarage  ; 
through  a  well-concealed  door,  gained  the  vault  in  which  she 
had  left  her  husband  ;  held  up  her  lamp,  and  not  seeing  him, 
cried  out,  “  Paul  !  why,  Paul  ! ” 

A  strangely  cadenced  laugh  was  the  only  answer  she  received. 
Advancing  to  a  recess,  she  found  him  seated  on  the  ground,  his 
knees  crippled  up  ;  and,  as  he  continued  his  chattering  laugh, 
an  expression  of  childish  fatuity  stamped  on  his  relaxed  and 
wasted  features. 

“  Paul  1  Paul  1”  she  repeated,  keeping  at  some  distance,  and 
looking  much  terrified.  “  What's  to  do  here,  man?  Want  of 
meat  it  cannot  be  ;  I  left  enough  for  two  or  three  days,  did  I 
not  ?” 

“  Enough,  enough  !”  he  echoed,  still  jabbering  at  her,  and 
gazing  vacantly. 

“  Oh,  Paul  !”  cried  Mrs.  Evelyn,  overcome  by  conjugal  affec¬ 
tion,  “  know  you  not  Janet,  your  own  wife  ?  Bless  us,  how  wild 
he  looks  !  Your  hand — quietly,  Paul” — in  some  misgiving  ol 
him — “  and  come,  now,  and  rest  you  in  Janet’s  arms  sitting 
down  by  him,  when  she  thought  he  was  not  mischievous. 
44  There,  lay  your  head,  so.  Woe’s  me!  what  has  come  ovei 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


325 


him  1”  and  the  woman’s  tears,  which,  be  their  cast  of  character 
what  it  may,  women  only  can  shed,  bedewed  the  poor  little  man’s 
forehead. 

The  voice  to  which  he  had  often  been  too  well  accustomed, 
but  which  now  sounded  like  sweetest  music  on  his  ear,  gradually 
restored  him.  He  grew  conscious  of  his  wife’s  identity  ;  and 
bursting  into  tears,  hid  his  face  on  her  shoulder,  while  he  point¬ 
ed  to  the  far  wall  of  the  dungeon.  Mrs.  Evelyn  saw  a  breach 
large  enough  to  admit  one  person.  The  floor  of  the  vault,  near 
it,  was  strewed  with  stones.  She  repeated  her  questions  for  a 
full  explanation,  and,  sentence  by  sentence,  Paul  strove  to  satisfy 
her  ;  but  as  his  method  was  bad  and  disjointed,  we  hope  to  trans¬ 
late  it  into  more  intelligible  order. 

Upon  the  evening  of  his  concealment,  Mrs.  Evelyn,  contrary  to 
the  assertion  she  has  just  made,  had  left  Paul  but  a  scanty  meal. 
She  promised,  however,  to  visit  him  at  night.  In  many  fears 
and  horrors,  which  his  temporary  abode  was  well  calculated  to 
increase,  the  marked  victim  crept  into  a  corner,  where  his  little 
easy-ehair  had  been  fixed  for  him,  and  strove  patiently  to  await 
the  return  of  his  kind  keeper.  About  the  hour  she  might  have 
been  expected,  he  had  just  fallen  into  a  slumber,  the  irresistible 
result  of  more  fatigue  of  spirit  than  his  nature  was  capable  of 
supporting,  when  a  tremendous  noise  called  back  his  fleeting 
senses,  and  crash,  crash  went  the  wall  of  his  dungeon,  and  clat¬ 
ter,  clatter  came  the  tumbling  stones.  Consternation,  and  the 
terrors  of  an  instant  death,  seized  upon  his  heart,  and,  as  was  his 
wont  on  all  occasions  of  peril,  he  cried  aloud,  “Janet  !  Janet  !” 

“  Whisht  1”  answered  a  female  voice,  but  not  that  of  Mrs. 
PAelyn.  He  stared  towards  the  far  wall,  and  by  the  dim  light 
of  a  lamp  his  lady  had  left  burning,  saw,  standing  in  the  breach 
i ust  made,  a  woman,  of  whose  face  and  figure  he  retained  a 
confused,  but  most  disagreeable  recollection.  This  sight  did 
not  serve  to  quiet  his  fears,  and  he  cried  out  louder  and 
ouder. 

“  Whisht,  whisht,  I  bid  you  1”  repeated  Onagh,  darting 
.hrough  the  aperture,  from  the  vault  in  Edmund’s  house. 

“  Be  silent,  and  listen.  Do  you  remember  who  I  am  ?” 

Paul  redoubled  his  cries  for  “  Janet,  Janet  !” 

“Answer,”  resumed  Onagh,  “or,  at  your  next  word,  every 
wall  around  you  shall  tumble,  and  here  will  you  find  your  grave 
Answer,  have  we  not  met  before  ?” 

“  No  !  yes  !  yes,  mistress  ! — no ! — Janet  l” 


326 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Omadhaun  !*  you  forget  :  let  me  be  sure  of  you.”  She 
took  the  lamp  and  held  it  to  his  face.  “Ay,  you  are  the  man. 
f  come  far  to  see  you,  and  to  speak  these  words — you  heed  me  ?” 

“Janet  !  help,  Janet!” 

“  Do  you  heed  me,  I  say  ?”  shaking  him. 

“No,  no  !  Janet  !” 

“No ?”  another  shake,  and  an  angry  grin,  close  to  his  face. 

“  Yes — hold  !  truly  do  I,  mistress  his  features  relaxing  into 

silly  smile,  as  terror  at  length  quite  bewildered  him. 

“  Hearken,  then.  You  have  a  brother’s  daughter  in  the  house  ; 
ai  d  it  is  your  part  before  man,  and  it  is  your  part  before  God, 
to  save  her  from  a  near  danger,  from — Omadhaun  !”  fiercely 
interrupting  herself,  “as  well  may  I  speak  my  words  to  the 
wads.  You  do  not  heed  me.” 

“  I  do — of  a  truth,  I  do,”  said  Paul,  giggling  ;  “  and  I  give 
thauks  for  your  visit  ;  am  glad  of  the  heart  to  see  you,  for- 
sooih.  Sit,  mistress  ;  rest  you.” 

“  Conrp-on-duoul !  I  am  no  mistress  ;  I  am  Onagh,  that 
lives  in  the  black  house  by  the  roaring  sea  ;  Onagh,  that  the 
worlvl  first  trampled  down,  and  n-ow  is  afraid  of ;  Onagh,  the 
friendless,”  she  continued,  in  a  changed  tone,  “  left  without  kith 
or  kin  by  them  that  were  her  own  kith  and  kin — by  them  and 
by  him  who  was  more  to  her  than  them  ;  Onagh,  the  unknown  ; 
Onagh,  the  broken-hearted  !  Faugh  !  there  is  no  use  in  talking 
to  this  nothing  of  a  creature.  But  give  me  to  eat  !”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  again  turning  on  him.  They  have  left  me  without  a 
mouthful.  Your  meat — your  meat !”  She  snatched  it  up  from 
a  stool,  and  retreating  through  the  aperture,  added,  “  Starve ! 
That  was  my  first  curse  upon  you  both — you  and  your  ban - 
shuck, f  and  now  let  it  stick  to  you.” 

She  disappeared  into  her  own  cellar  ;  but  of  this  poor  Paul 
remained  unconscious.  His  senses  had  quite  failed  him  ;  he 
neither  stretched  out  his  hand  in  search  of  food,  nor  wondered 
at  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Evelyn,  although,  as  we  have  before  seen, 
her  own  personal  sufferings  kept  that  lady  from  visiting  him  at 
the  appointed  hoar.  And  thus,  in  hunger,  imbecility,  and  soon 
in  darkness,  passed  the  following  three  days  and  nights,  during 
which  he  was  still  left  alone,  without  a  second  interview  even 
with  his  near  neighbor,  Onagh.  At  all  events,  without  his  being 
conscious  of  it. 


*  A  silly  fellow. 


f  A  brawling  woman. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


327 


When  Mrs.  Evelyn  had,  by  repeated  questions,  gathered  this 
story  from  Paul,  her  indignation  against  Onagh  was  loudly  ex¬ 
pressed.  “  The  gipsy  vagabond  !  the  Papist  witch  !”  she  cried. 
“  0,  had  I  been  here!  had  I  met  her!  had  I  but — ah!”  a 
scream  of  interruption,  as  her  eye,  glancing  towards  the  aper¬ 
ture,  fixed  on  the  pale  face  of  the  person  she  rated  so  roundly, 
ii  nd  on  her  dim  black  eyes,  dully  glaring  in  the  red  beam  of  the 
lamp. 

“  You  are  here,  now — and  you  are  with  her  here,”  said 
Onagh,  striding  into  the  vault  ;  “  what  is  your  will  of  me  ?” 
A  rusty  skein  was  in  her  hand. 

“  Mercy,  good  mistress  Onagh !”  cried  the  lady,  dropping  on 
her  knees  ;  “  only  mercy.” 

“  Give  me  food,  then  !”  continued  Onagh,  grasping  her  shoul¬ 
der.  “  I  laugh  at  your  words — but  give  me  food  !  They  have 
left  me  to  starve  like  a  wild  cat,  in  that  black  den,  till  I  am 
made  as  wild  and  as  wicked.  Something — a  morsel  they  flung 
me  every  day,  but  the  rats  tore  it  from  me.  Food,  woman, 
food  !  Get  up,  and  bring  me  to  your  cupboard  ;  or,  look  at 
this  !”  raising  the  skein. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  quickly  obeyed.  Without,  indeed,  leaving  the 
vault,  she  handed  to  Onagh  a  supply  out  of  her  pockets.  The 
woman  devoured  it  like  a  wolf. 

“  And  now  let  me  out  !”  she  resumed  after  her  speedy  meal  ; 
“  let  me  out  through  your  own  door  into  the  street.  1  came 
here  to  speak  to  your  husband  of  what  concerns  him,  but 
another  ear  shall  listen  to  it  all — another  man,  more  like  a  man, 
and  better  able  to  right  me.  Let  me  out.” 

The  lady  willingly  conducted  her  to  the  street-door. 

“  Starve  !  still  starve  !”  cried  Onagh,  by  way  of  thanks,  at 
parting. 

Securing  the  hall-door,  Mrs.  Evelyn  hastened  to  replace,  from 
her  private  store,  the  pockets  full  of  good  things  of  which  she 
had  just  been  plundered,  benevolently  intending  to  hasten  to 
Paul  with  her  new  supply.  Arriving  at  the  secret  cupboard, 
she  knelt  down  to  unlock  it,  and,  in  the  same  position,  to  swal¬ 
low  a  few  mouthfuls  of  cold  meat,  and  a  few  glasses  of  home¬ 
made  cordial,  ere  she  attended  her  husband. 

“  Halves,”  said  Jerry,  at  her  back,  whilst  she  was  thus  em* 
ployed.  He  had  entered  the  house  from  his  own,  through  the 
breach,  which,  in  this  part  of  the  wall,  was  considerable. 

Mrs.  Evelyn  at  first  screamed  ;  but  ascertaining  who  it  was 


328 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


that  watched  her,  quickly  sprang  up,  and  laying  hands  on  Jerry, 
as  quickly  brought  him  to  the  ground,  crippled  and  enfeebled  as 
he  was  with  hunger  and  his  bad  wound.  Holding  him  down, 
she  snatched  a  knife. 

“  Plundering  old  pirate  !”  she  cried.  “  Tory,  Rapparee,  Pa¬ 
pist  !  come  you  on  my  back,  too  ?  Oh,  ill-omened  castaway  l 
I'll  teach  you  !” 

“  Tilly-vally,  sister  Janet,”  answered  Jerry;  “you  must  not 
hurt  me,  or  up  you  go,  you  know,  over  the  yardarm.  Better 
for  you  let  me  rise,  and  give  me  some  prog,  or  I’ll  report  to 
the  governor,  and  have  you  sent  to  the  hulks.  Let  me  up  ;  I 
strike.  For,  shiver  my  timbers,  you’re  too  heavy  a  decker  for 
me.” 

These  words  brought  Mrs.  Evelyn  to  reason.  After  a  bitter 
internal  struggle,  and  a  long  pause — 

“  Here,  then,”  she  cried,  giving  him  some  eatables,  “  take 
that,  blotch  of  your  family,  and  let  me  never  see  your  face  again, 
nor  hear  the  wag  of  your  tongue.  Remember,  on  no  other  con¬ 
dition  do  I  give  it.” 

“  Agreed,  Janet.  But  I  will  have  halves  of  every  thing. 
Half  of  that  pasty,  that  ham,  that  flitch,  that  hung  beef.  Three 
of  those  loaves,  those  tongues.  Six  of  those  little  black  bottles. 
I  will,  as  I’m  a  Christian,  or  all  shall  go  among  the  crew,  and 
yourself  into  the  bottom  of  the  hold,  Janet.” 

After  much  indignant  remonstrance,  Mrs.  Evelyn  was,  in 
prudence  and  policy,  obliged  to  submit.  Jerry  retired  through 
the  breach,  well  laden  ;  singing  a  verse  of  one  of  his  Rapparee 
songs — 

“  Tliady  Murphy  lost  his  cow, 

And  didn’t  know  where  to  find  her  ; 

And  ’twas  all  the  token  he  could  give, 

She  carried  her  tail  behind  her.” 

Mrs.  Evelyn,  in  diminished  spirits  and  circumstances,  returned 
with  a  scanty  supply  to  Paul’s  cell.  As  she  entered,  the  lady 
wondered  he  did  not  speak  nor  move.  She  called  him  :  no  an 
swer  came.  She  advanced  to  his  corner  ;  he  lay  on  the  floor, 
in  a  heap.  She  stooped  and  raised  him  ;  poor  Paul’s  sufferings 
were  over.  The  last  shock  of  Onagh’s  appearance  had  been  to 
much  for  him. 


TI1E  BOYNE  WATER. 


329 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

“  Starve  I”  cried  Jerry,  entering  the  room  ii:  which  Edmund 
and  Evelyn,  all  their  arrangements  made,  awaited  the  hour  of 
midnight  to  join,  along  with  Esther,  Eva,  and  her  reverend  com¬ 
panion,  at  Columbkill’s  well.  “Starve,  quoth-a!  tilly-vally  ! 
Good  men  never  fare  ill  !  That’s  my  word,  in  any  storm.  Se¬ 
rious  men  have  I  seen  go  down,  in  scores,  but  merrily  swam  the 
merry.  Come,  goodmen  lads,  be  hearty.” 

He  laid  down  his  freight  of  good  cheer,  his  friends  staring  at 
him. 

“  Where,  and  how  came  you  by  this,  uncle  ?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“  It  came  to  my  hand,”  answered  Jerry  ;  “it  ever  does  so  ;  it 
ever  did.  As  boy,  man,  and  lad,  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe, 
sea  and  land,  have  ever  cried  to  me — eat  and  drink,  Jerry,  and 
keep  a  heart,  still.  ’Tis  an  excellent  world.” 

His  companions  did  not  refuse  to  partake  of  his  supply,  with¬ 
out  asking  any  more  questions.  When  Jerry  had  pretty  well 
satisfied  himself,  he  thought  of  imparting  some  of  his  good  luck 
to  their  prisoner,  Onagh,  and  for  this  purpose  left  the  room.  In 
a  few  moments  lie  returned,  informing  them  that  she  had  hoisted 
all  her  sail,  and  sheered  off. 

“  Gone  !”  exclaimed  Edmund  ;  “  we  have  no  time  to  stay  here 
then,  Evelyn  ;  not  even  to  inquire  into  her  means  of  escape. 
Come,  the  hour  has  struck.” 

“  It  has,”  said  Evelyn.  14  But  why  should  you  seem  affected 
by  the  movements  of  that  poor  woman,  M’Donnell  ?  Indeed, 
why  should  you  have  held  her  in  any  restraint  ?  But  that  I 
did  not  think  it  important,  I  could  have  informed  you  of  her 
being  at  large,  an  hour  ago  ;  for,  on  my  way  hither,  I  saw  her 
standing  at  the  door  of  the  governor.” 

“  Ay  ?”  said  Edmund,  changing  color  ;  “  then  must  we  not 
stay  here,  indeed.” 

They  hurried  out  of  the  house,  and  met  Esther,  disguised  in 
male  attire,  awaiting  them,  at  an  appointed  place.  Edmund  wTas 
also  disguised  as  a  soldier  of  the  garrison.  They  all  joined  a 
body  of  men  who  were  about  to  issue,  on  a  foraging  sally, 
through  Butcher’s  gate;  got  out  with  them,  and  contrived  to 


330 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


let  them  pass  on.  In  a  few  seconds  the  young  party  stood  by 
Columbkill’s  well. 

Over  a  bubbling  spring  was  raised  a  little  arched  building, 
open  at  one  end,  and  surmounted  by  a  shattered  cross.  Here,  if 
local  history  errs  not,  the  patron  saint  of  the  north,  and  partic¬ 
ularly  of  Derry,  the  famous  Columbkill,  used  to  seek  water  for 
his  cell  in  the  adjacent  monastery,  and  spend  many  hours  of 
meditation  and  prayer.  On  his  departure  for  Scotland,  he  made 
his  adieus  to  the  spot,  along  with  others  to  which  he  was  at¬ 
tached,  in  four  lines,  which  are  thus  translated  : 

“  My  fragrant  banks  and  fruitful  trees,  farewell ; 

Where  holy  mortals,  mixed  with  angels,  dwell. 

Here  angels  shall  enjoy  my  little  cell, 

My  sloe,  my  nut,  my  apple,  and  my  well.” 

By  the  side  of  this  consecrated  little  pile  stood  Edmund,  Esther, 
and  Evelyn,  shrinking  at  the  voices  around  them,  and  looking 
wistfully  at  every  side  for  the  friends  they  came  to  meet.  None 
met  them.  Edmund  supposed  they  might  have  hidden  them¬ 
selves  under  the  arched  roof  of  the  well,  and  was  approaching 
its  black  mouth,  when,  from  the  other  side,  two  figures  appeared. 
Both  seemed  of  the  male  sex  ;  but,  coming  nearer,  Eva  was 
recognized,  clad,  like  Esther,  in  man’s  attire,  but  that  the  cos¬ 
tume  seemed  foreign,  and  of  a  more  martial  cast,  and  supporting 
on  her  arm  the  bent  and  palsied  old  priest.  In  silence  were 
mutual  embraces  exchanged,  and  in  whispers  were  conveyed  their 
mutual  greetings  and  tidings.  Sheltered  from  observation,  at 
the  remote  side  of  the  well-house,  stood  two  horses,  upon  which 
Eva  and  her  guardian  had,  after  many  previous  precautions  to 
ascertain  the  means  of  possible  approach,  stealthily  gained  the 
point  of  rendezvous.  She  told  them  that  in  Hamilton’s  camp 
they  also  would  find  horses. 

Weeping  and  trembling,  Esther  clung  to  Eva’s  breast.  In 
silent  wonder  and  love  did  Evelyn  gaze  on  the  metamorphosis  of 
his  adored  lady,  who,  in  her  present  attire,  looked  the  very  per¬ 
sonification  of  a  boy-hero,  completely  baffling  his  recollections  of 
her  former  air,  figure — self,  in  fact ;  every  motion,  even  her  fea¬ 
tures,  seemed  different.  But  this  was  not  the  hour  nor  place  for 
much  indulgence  of  emotions,  such  as  all  experienced  ;  time 
lapsed — opportunity,  perhaps,  with  it ;  hither  they  came  for  one 
certain  purpose,  which  was  to  be  at  once  engaged  in  ;  and,  at 
the  earnest  urging  of  Edmund,  Esther  gave  him  her  hand. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


331 


Without  book,  the  old  priest  began  his  ceremony,  when — 

“  Hush  !”  interrupted  Evelyn  ;  “  let  us  step  back  a  little.  The 
gate  opens.” 

Before  they  could  gain  the  shelter  of  the  well-house,  a  body 
of  horse,  galloping  straight  across  the  open  ground,  at  their 
faces,  came  suddenly  upon  them.  At  the  same  time,  a  single 
man  walked  from  the  open  gate,  and,  when  he  drew  near,  they 
knew  Governor  Walker. 

“Stand,  all  !”  he  said,  as  he  joined  them.  None  moved  ;  in 
fact,  the  horsemen  had  surrounded  them. 

“You,  Captain  Evelyn,  I  arrest  in  the  name  of  King  Wil¬ 
liam/’  he  continued,  gravely,  “  for  remissness  of  duty,  in  aban¬ 
doning  your  detachment  that  has  just  sallied  out.  You,  Edmund 
M’Donnell,  as  our  former  prisoner,  now  found  outside  the  city, 
in  breach  of  your  parole.  Miss  Evelyn  returns  with  her  brother. 
The  strangers — the  old  priest  and  the  masquerading  girl — are 
free.” 

“  Sir,”  said  Evelyn,  “  I  am  astonished  at  this  interference.” 

“Doubtless;  but  you  need  not  be,”  answered  Mr.  Walker, 
dryly.  “  I  was  fully  advised  of  your  rash  and  unseemly  adven¬ 
ture,  and  had  taken  measures  to  counteract  it.” 

“Seize  her  !”  here  screamed  Esther,  whose  eyes,  since  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  Mr.  Walker,  had  been  fixed  on  the  dark  mouth  of 
the  well.  “I  knew  it.  She  is  there.  She  stirs  in  the  dark.” 

“  Who  ?”  demanded  her  brother. 

“  Come,”  resumed  the  governor  ;  “  time  is  not  to  be  spent 
here..  Soldiers,  follow  me  with  the  prisoners  and  Miss  Evelyn  ; 
let  the  others  go.” 

He  walked  slowly  towards  the  gate. 

“  Farewell,  friends,”  said  Eva,  embracing  them  separately  ; 
“still  shall  we  meet  again.” 

“Never,”  said  Esther,  as  she  sank,  weak  and  weeping,  on  the 
arm  of  her  brother ;  “  and — hear  that  !  she  has  echoed  me.” 

“  What  mean  you,  dear  Esther  ?”  asked  Evelyn  ;  “  there  was 
no  voice  but  yours.  Nor  is  there  any  one  where  you  point,  and 
fix  your  eyes  so  wildly.  Up,  Eva,  and  away  1  these  men  will, 
at  least,  let  us  stand  here  till  you  and  the  clergyman  are  beyond 
our  lines — farewell !” 

“  Farewell,”  replied  Eva,  as  she  and  her  gray-headed  com¬ 
panion  spurred  onward.  At  this  moment  Esther’s  hints  re¬ 
ceived  a  confirmation.  Onagh  ran  out  of  the  shadow  of  the 
well-house,  following  the  track  of  the  departing  friends  ;  and,  as 


332 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 

was  always  her  habit,  when  much  agitated,  clapping  her  hands, 
as  she  exclaimed  bitterly  : 

“  Speed  you  !  speed  you  !  luck  and  leisure  over  the  road  you 
came  so  fast.  This  night  we  are  travellers  together.” 

As  Edmund,  who  had  not  opened  his  lips  during  the  whole  of 
this  scene,  watched  his  sister  and  the  old  priest  pass  safely 
through  the  hostile  lines,  Onagh  also  ran  on  in  the  same  direc¬ 
tion.  The  two  friends,  supporting  between  them  the  fainting 
Esther,  then  turned  their  faces  towards  the  gate,  and,  guarded 
by  the  horsemen,  re-entered  the  town. 

Mr.  Walker,  with  the  lady  from  whose  house  Esther  had  just 
escaped,  met  them  in  the  street.  Esther  was  committed  to  her 
charge,  parting  almost  in  an  insensible  state  from  Edmund  and 
Evelyn.  They  were  marched  to  the  guard-house,  and,  at  express 
orders  from  Walker,  confined  in  different  rooms.  As  they  sepa¬ 
rated,  they  sadly  exchanged  an  embrace,  but  spoke  no  word. 

Esther’s  fate,  in  the  increasing  distress,  occupied  the  friends 
more  than  their  own.  A  few  days  after  their  confinement  a  ray 
of  hope  and  relief  reached  their  minds,  in  consequence  of  intelli¬ 
gence,  communicated  by  those  about  them,  that  ships  had  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  Lough,  and,  firing  at  the  Castle  of  Culraore,  en¬ 
deavored  to  pass  it,  and  reach  the  city.  No  doubt  was  enter¬ 
tained  of  these  vessels  being  sent  from  England  with  the  long- 
promised  supplies  and  assistance,  and  great  joy  reigned  through 
the  town.  But  it  was  of  short  continuance. 

The  friends  soon  after  heard  that,  galled  by  a  heavy  fire  from 
the  fort,  as  one  of  them  ran,  and  for  some  time  lay  aground, 
the  ships  were  obliged  to  drop  down  the  river,  and  now  re¬ 
mained  inactive.  While  the  besiegers,  taking  advantage  of  their 
inactivity,  increased  their  forces,  at  each  side  of  the  Foyle,  with¬ 
in  a  mile  of  Derry  ;  raised  heavy  batteries  ;  brought  thither 
many  guns  ;  and — all  these  movements  fully  visible  to  the  sol¬ 
diers  and  people  from  the  northeast  range  of  their  walls — con¬ 
structed  across  the  river  a  ponderous  wooden  boom,  well  se¬ 
cured  at  either  bank,  and  regarded,  by  the  despairing  garrison 
and  citizens,  as  impassable.  Thus,  then,  from  the  only  quarter 
to  which  hope  might  look  for  relief,  none  could  now  be  expected. 
Day  by  day,  the  little  stock  of  provisions  still  decreased,  while 
fever,  dysentery,  and  other  hideous  diseases,  began  to  accompa¬ 
ny  the  nearer  approaches  of  utter  famine.  In  their  separate 
prison-rooms,  the  friends  found  their  coarse  meal,  before  scanty 
enough,  still  abridged  ;  in  the  pallid  faces  and  meagre  forms  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


333 


their  guards  and  attendants,  they  read  the  general  sufferings  ; 
and  the  situation  of  Esther  came,  in  increasing  horror,  upon 
their  hearts.  Shrieks  of  famishing  women  arose  in  the  streets, 
and  they  fancied  tney  heard  her  voice  calling  for  food. 

In  about  a  fortnight  after  their  imprisonment,  word  was 
brought  them  of  the  return  of  the  French  general,  De  Rosen, 
to  the  Irish  camp,  principally  with  instructions  to  oppose  the 
English,  but  also  to  assist  Hamilton  in  pressing  the  siege. 
From  Rosen’s  character  every  thing  vigorous,  persevering,  and 
cruel  was  reckoned  on,  and  in  a  short  time  he  realized  the  ex¬ 
pectation.  Many  threatening  changes  were  made  in  the  posi¬ 
tions  of  the  besieging  army  ;  their  works  were  pushed  closer 
towards  the  town  ;  several  strong  batteries  were  raised  on 
heights  to  the  west  and  southeast  of  it,  one  within  ten  perches  of 
Butcher’s  gate.  Lines  were  drawn  round  all  the  land  sides  of  the 
walls  ;  the  trenches  well  manned.  Supplies  of  water — the  last 
supplies  open  to  the  besieged,  outside  their  gates — were  thus  cut 
off ;  and  at  length  it  seemed  that  Derry  was  in  reality  a  besieged 
city. 

The  cannon  now  roared  louder  and  more  frequently  than  ever, 
and  shells  of  great  weight  fell  in  the  streets.  Numbers  of  the 
garrisons  and  citizens  were  killed  on  the  walls,  or  in  the  houses, 
or  crowding  to  sleep  under  the  walls,  as  their  safest  screen. 
Thus  spending  the  nights  in  the  open  air,  the  effects  of  their 
unwholesome  place  of  repose  added  to  the  ravages  of  their 
previous  distempers,  until  mortality,  in  every  frightful  shape, 
abounded. 

Consternation  and  despair  began  at  last  to  contemplate  a 
surrender  ;  and  the  friends  remained  in  momentary  dread  of 
the  entrance  of  an  enraged  enemy,  when  a  second  glimpse  of 
relief  was  opened  to  the  besieged,  and,  once  more,  obstinate 
resistance  became  the  fixed  resolve  of  the  governor.  A  person, 
escaping  from  the  ships,  arrived  at  the  water-side,  where  Lord 
Antrim’s  Redshanks  had  first  made  their  appearance,  and  bold¬ 
ly  swimming  across  a  stretch  of  water  of  more  than  one  thou¬ 
sand  feet,  informed  the  city  that  the  vessels,  still  faintly  seen  in 
the  Lough,  contained  provisions,  and  a  disciplined  force,  under 
the  command  of  General  Kirke,  expressly  sent  for  the  relief  of 
Derry  ;  that  the  general  was  most  anxious  to  reach  the  town  ; 
that  he  would  try  every  means  of  doing  so  ;  and  that  he  ear¬ 
nestly  recommended  the  holding  out  of  the  garrison. 

Mr.  Walker  instantly  prepared  a  message  to  Kirke,  conveying 


334 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  best  hints  that,  under  the  circumstances,  could  be  given,  acd 
the  adventurous  courier  proceeded  some  distance  back  with  it. 
But,  being  watched,  fired  at,  and  wounded,  he  was  obliged  to  re¬ 
turn  to  the  city.  Another  person  attempted  the  service,  and  he 
was  taken  prisoner. 

Still  Rosen  continued  his  violent  cannonading.  He  had  ar- 
rived  about  the  20th  of  June  ;  by  the  27th,  General  Hamilton 
desired  a  conference  with  the  garrison,  and  once  more  proposed 
terms  of  capitulation  in  the  name  of  James,  that  still  proffered 
forgiveness  and  safety  ;  and,  by  the  way,  that  showed  a  jealousy 
of  his  French  colleague,  and  seemed  to  speak  of  some  previous 
quarrelling  between  them.  But  the  governor  and  his  garrison, 
buoyed  up  by  the  message  from  Kirke,  totally  rejected  those 
terms.  The  negotiation  at  once  ended,  and  besiegers  and  be¬ 
sieged  again  flew  to  their  guns,  both  more  enraged  than  ever 

De  Rosen’s  rigorous  measures  have  been  glanced  at  ;  other 
measures  of  his,  alluded  to  as  cruel,  remain  to  be  noticed. 

Upon  the  first  or  second  day  of  July,  as  Edmund,  after  a 
sleepless  and  feverish  night,  sat,  almost  distracted,  thinking  of 
the  probable  fate  of  Esther,  he  was  surprised  with  a  visit  from 
Evelyn.  They  started  at  the  first  sight  of  each  other  ;  want 
of  food,  watching,  and  sorrowing  had,  during  a  separation  of 
three  weeks,  prepared  a  shocking  change  for  the  eyes  of  both. 
Their  greeting,  too,  was  strange  and  solemn,  almost  as  if  they 
had  not  been  the  affectionate  friends  they  indeed  were.  For 
some  time,  no  words  were  spoken  between  them.  Edmund  first 
broke  silence. 

“  The  governor  has  set  you  free  ?”  he  asked. 

“  But  now,”  answered  Evelyn,  “  he  visited  me  ;  and,  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  something  that  has  recently  occurred,  gave  me  my 
freedom,  and  sent  me  to  you  to  release  you  also.  But,  I  musi 
deal  very  plainly,  M’Donnell — to  lead  you,  as  my  private  prisoner, 
to  a  court-martial,  where  you,  along  with  the  other  Irish  prison¬ 
ers  in  the  garrison,  are  to  be  tried  for  your  life.” 

And  all  this  in  consequence  of  some  recent  matter,  you  say 
What  is  it  ?” 

“  Have  you  heard  no  news  within  these  few  days  ?” 

“Not  a  word  ;  my  guard  seemed  unusually  disinclined  to 
speak  with  me.” 

“  Listen,  then.  A  few  days  ago,  De  Rosen  sent  into  the  city 
a  declaration,  threatening,  in  case  of  continued  resistance,  to 
demolish  it  to  its  foundations  ;  to  put  all  to  the  sword,  sparing 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


qqs 

OO'J 


neither  sex  nor  age  ;  to  burn  up  the  whole  adjacent  country, 
that  so  any  re-enforcement  from  England  may  be  left  destitute  ; 
and  to  collect,  from  the  barony  of  Inishowen,  round  the  coast  as 
far  as  Charlernont,  all  those  of  the  Protestant  party,  whether 
protected  or  not,  of  every  rank  and  sex,  who  can  be  found,  and 
drive  them,  in  a  body,  to  starve  under  our  walls.” 

“  Impossible,”  said  Edmund,  warmly  ;  “  this  must  be  a  false 
rumor.  No  man  of  human  feelings  could  even  threaten  such  a 
barbarity.” 

“  I  agree,”  resumed  Evelyn  ;  “  but  what  will  you  say  if — a 
specified  time  having  elapsed  since  the  threat  was  made — part, 
and  the  worse  part  of  it,  is  already  put  into  force  ?” 

' 1  What  part  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“  Come  with  me.”  He  took  Edmund's  arm,  led  him  to  the 
walls,  and  there  showed  him  thousands  of  meu,  women,  and  chil¬ 
dren,  of  all  conditions,  crowded  under  them,  and  crying  to  their 
brethren  within  for  the  shelter  and  food  it  was  impossible  to 
afford. 

“These,”  added  Evelyn,  “are  all  the  Protestants  of  the 
north,  found  out  of  Derry  and  Enniskillen,  and  driven  hither, 
according  to  Rosen’s  promise,  at  the  point  of  the  sword.” 

“  Blessed  God  !”  exclaimed  Edmund,  as,  in  the  utmost  con¬ 
sternation,  he  surveyed  the  unhappy  crowd  ;  “  do  I  witness  it  ? 
Is  this  done  by  my  friends,  and  those  who  call  themselves  the 
friends  of  my  country  ?  By  the  honest  man’s  hope  of  heaven, 
it  is  enough  to  bring  down  a  curse  on  our  cause,  and  to  turn 
from  it,  in  anger  and  disgust,  the  eyes  of  its  best  well-wishers  !” 

“  I  can  give  you  one  relieving  thought,  foe  as  I  am,”  said 
Evelyn  ;  “it  is  not  the  work  of  Hamilton  or  his  soldiers  ;  it  has 
not  been  conceived  nor  perpetrated  by  your  countrymen.  Of 
late,  the  Irish  and  French  generals  have  had  some  bickering  be¬ 
tween  them,  both  striving  to  show  an  authority  independent  of 
the  other.  And  this  deed  has  been  planned  and  carried  into 
effect  by  foreigners  only,  unconnected  in  country  or  fellow-feeling 
with  the  victims  of  their  cruel  impatience.” 

“Hamilton  must  be  applied  to — that  is  my  proposal,”  resumed 
Edmund,  eagerly. 

“  Then  you  will  soon  have  opportunity,  and  need,  too,  to  fol¬ 
low  it  up,  Edmund.  These  are  hideous  times  ;  let  us  walk  to 
the  market-house.” 

They  did  so.  Edmund  found  a  court-martial  sitting  upon 
the  Irish  prisoners,  some  of  whose  names  have  before  been 


336 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


mentioned.  lie  was  ordered  to  join  them,  and  abide  his  trial 
by  their  side.  In  a  few  moments,  the  court  pronounced  a  sen¬ 
tence  of  death  on  the  gallows,  which  the  governor  declared 
should  be  carried  into  effect  upon  all,  by  ten  o’clock  next  morn¬ 
ing,  provided  the  miserable  crowd  were  not  allowed  to  depart 
from  the  walls. 

Edmund  demanded  permission  to  write  to  Hamilton,  with  a 
pledge  of  conveyance  for  the  letter.  His  fellow-prisoners  ear¬ 
nestly  seconded  him.  Their  united  prayer  was  granted  ;  and 
they  immediately  prepared  and  dispatched  a  statement  of  the 
sentence,  requesting  their  general,  “  as  one  who  did  not  delight 
in  shedding  innocent  blood,”  to  represent  their  condition  to  the 
marshal-general ;  and  adding  that,  in  consideration  of  the  in¬ 
human  proceeding  which  caused  their  danger,  they  could  not  lay 
their  blood  to  the  garrison  of  Derry,  from  whom  they  had  hith¬ 
erto  experienced  “  all  civility  imaginable.” 

The  prisoners  were  then  strongly  guarded  to  the  jail,  instead 
of  the  lodging  they  had  before  occupied.  Evelyn  accompanied 
his  friend.  On  their  way  they  passed  a  gallows  already  con¬ 
structed  on  the  walls,  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  for  their  execution 
the  ensuing  morning.  At  the  jail  door,  Evelyn  was  refused  ad¬ 
mission  with  M’Donnell. 

“We  part  here,  then,”  said  Edmund,  taking  his  hand  for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  met.  “  I  have  not  yet  asked  you  a 
word  about  your  sister,  Evelyn  ;  I  feared  the  question.  But 
how  is  she  ?” 

“  I  found  her  very  ill,  and  very  wretched,”  answered  Evelyn  ; 
11  but  principally  afflicted  on  your  account.” 

“  Well,  I  expected  it,  if  not  worse.  Farewell  1  Should  this 
letter  fail,  and  the  rest  follow,  do  not  mention  it  to  her  till  she 
is  better.  But  should  Esther  ever  be  well  enough  to  hear 
about  it,  tell  her” — his  voice  failed  him,  and,  wringing  Evelyn’s 
hand,  he  was  only  able  to  add — “  farewell !” — when,  with  his 
sad  companion's,  he  retired  into  the  jail. 

Evelyn  turned,  through  the  streets,  to  the  walls,  afraid  ol 
meeting  Esther  till  an  answer  should  arrive  from  Hamilton. 
Houses  had  been  battered  down,  at  every  step,  as  he  walked 
along,  and  the  pavement  torn  up  with  shells.  Faint  and  sick 
people  crawled  out  of  their  homes,  for  safety,  or  lay  powerless 
on  their  own  thresholds.  Still  roared  the  insatiable  cannon, 
within  and  without  the  city. 

Alone  he  stood  for  hours  on  the  walls,  careless  of  being  ex- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


337 


posed  to  the  enemy’s  shot,  with  his  face  turned  in  the  direction 
from  which  an  answer  might  be  expected.  At  last  came  the 
messenger,  with  his  flag  and  escort.  Evelyn  ran  down  to  the 
gate  to  ask  for  tidings  ;  it  was  asserted  that  Hamilton  returned 
an  answer  confirming  the  fate  of  the  sufferers  without  the  walls 
— and  of  the  prisoners  within. 

He  bent  his  steps  to  his  drooping  and  half-famished  sister, 
and  strove  to  impart  to  her  the  hope,  a  spark  of  which  he  did 
not  feel,  and,  did  she  know  all,  the  hope  which  was  not  for  her. 
That  night  he  enjoyed  no  sleep,  and  the  early  morning  found  him 
at  the  prison-door  of  his  friend.  As  he  prepared  to  go  in  for  a 
last  farewell,  an  unusual  stir  was  heard  on  the  walls  ;  he  as¬ 
cended  them,  and  beheld  the  crowd  below  preparing,  under  es¬ 
cort  of  the  Irish  army,  to  depart  homeward.  Weak  though  he 
was,  Evelyn  flew  back  to  the  jail,  and  brought  to  the  prisoners 
the  first  announcement  of  their  safety. 

“  Edmund,  dear  Edmund,”  he  said,  as  M’Donnell  looked 
vaguely  at  him,  “I  am  sure  Hamilton  wrote  that  note  only  in 
hopes  of  terrifying  us — the  cruelty  having  once  been  committed 
— into  submission  to  his  master.  I  doubt  even  that  he  ever 
wrote  it.  At  all  events,  the  wretches  have  been  allowed  to  re¬ 
tire  from  our  walls,  and  you  are  at  liberty.”  In  fact,  James  had 
sent  a  peremptory  countermand  to  De  Rosen. 

He  took  Edmund’s  arm  ;  and,  after  the  necessary  forms  had 
been  gone  through,  they  gained  the  street  together. 

“Bring  me  to  see  Esther,”  said  M’Donnell,  “I  am  in  agony 
till  I  see  her.” 

They  turned  towards  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  Edmund 
walking  faster  than  his  strength  and  a  newly  come  agitation 
warranted.  About  half-way,  his  limbs  sank  under  him  ;  his  eyes 
closed  ;  his  cheeks  grew  fiery  red  ;  his  lips  dry  and  ashy  ;  and 
Evelyn  perceived  that  his  friend  was  struck  down  with  fever. 
He  called  some  people  to  his  assistance,  and  had  him  conveyed 
to  his  old  quarters,  where  M’Donnell  immediately  sank  on  a  bed 
of  sickness,  that  Evelyn  feared  would  be  his  last. 

Evelyn  was  his  nurse  ;  dividing  his  days  and  nights  between 
his  bedside  and  that  of  Esther,  when  garrison  duty  did  not  com¬ 
mand  his  absence.  Then,  poor  Jerry  filled  his  post,  faithfully 
aud  kindly  attending  the  sick  man,  and  still  exhorting  him — - 
though  some  tears  at  last  stole  down  his  now  meagre  cheek — to 
keep  a  heart,  and  be  merry. 

About  ten  davs  after  Edmund  became  ill,  Evelvn  received  a 

15 


338 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


summons  to  attend  the  governor.  It  was  evening.  lie  fou>*J 
Mr.  Walker  pacing  up  and  down  a  large  apartment,  his  step  stu] 
firm,  his  eye  still  powerful,  though,  in  common  with  all  around 
him,  want  and  anxiety  had  much  reduced  his  face  and  person. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

“  Sit  down,  Captain  Evelyn,”  said  Mr.  Walker,  taking  a  chair 
himself,  resting  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  and  casting  his  eyes  on 
the  floor. 

“  I  require  counsel ;  at  the  least,  a  calm  and  friendly  hearing, 
from  some  one,  as  to  what  I  shall  say.  Mr.  Baker,  my  colleague, 
is,  along  with  the  thousands  we  have  lost,  dead.  Captain  Mur¬ 
ray  is  honest,  but  perhaps  too  warm,  and  too  devoted  to  one 
view  of  the  present  subject,  shift  as  it  may.  Though  you  are 
but  a  youth,  nay,  though  we  have  sometimes  differed,  I  know  no 
third  man  in  Derry  to  whom  I  would  so  soon  speak  freely 
Therefore  attend. 

“  You  have  heard  that,  notwithstanding  our  reliance  on  Kirke’s 
message — in  consequence  of  which  we  flatly  refused  the  other 
day  to  treat  with  Hamilton — all  the  ships  yesterday  disappeared 
from  the  river.” 

“  Yes,  sir  ;  I  am  aware  of  that  distressing  fact.” 

“  Gone  they  are.  And  so  ends  Kirke’s  promise,  upon  which 
we  staked  all — dared  all.  ’Tis  like  the  conduct  of  the  heartless 
bravo,  first  boasting  and  engaging,  and  then  deterred,  by  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  a  little  difficulty  and  danger,  from  attempting  what 
a  man  of  any  bowels,  or  a  truly  brave  soldier,  would  almost 
have  dared  a  sea  of  flame  to  do.  ’Tis  like  him  who  has  learned 
humanity  from  the  Turk — whose  school  of  war  was  on  the  ground 
of  the  turbaned  infidel.  Ay,  and  Tis  like  the  accomplice  assas¬ 
sin  of  Jeffries,  who  helped  to  depopulate  a  fair  district  of-  Eng¬ 
land,  and  whose  name  is,  by  other  particular  acts  of  abomination, 
accursed  unto  posterity.  Better  success  could  not  have  been 
permitted  by  Heaven  to  the  cause  which  brooked  alliauce 
with  him.  With  him,  too,  who  was  James’s  hangman,  and  now 
is  William’s.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


33S* 


After  thus  giving  vent  to  his  embittered  feelings,  Mr.  Walker 
paused,  but  soon  continued  : 

“  All  hope  thus  shut  out  ;  death  and  famine  still  increasing 
their  demands  upon  us  ;  nearly  our  last  wretched  meal  served  : 
I  cannot  blame  the  city  for  at  last  inclining  to  the  terms  of  hon¬ 
orable  capitulation  again  proposed  by  Hamilton.  You  know, 
that  even  since  the  ships  disappeared,  he  once  more  sjjeaks  us 
fair  ?” 

Evelyn  assented. 

“  If  he  be  sincere,  it  is  considerately  done.  No  longer  oppos¬ 
ing  the  city,  I  have  myself  drawn  up  articles  which  have  been 
presented  to  the  enemy’s  council,  debated  upon,  and,  with  some 
exceptions,  allowed.  To-morrow  morning  we  are  to  send  a  final 
answer  ;  and,  doubtless,  it  will  meet  Hamilton’s  wishes.” 

“  In  other  words,  the  city  of  Derry  will  surrender  to-morrow 
morning  to  King  James,”  observed  Evelyn,  as  Mr.  Walker  again 
paused. 

“Thou  hast  said  it,”  answered  Mr.  Walker,  groaning  deeply. 
Just  then  a  pallid  and  meagre  soldier  entered,  leading  a  sturdy, 
fresh-faced  lad  of  sixteen  years,  in  whose  bold  and  mischievous 
eye,  Evelyn  recognized,  now  ripened  to  a  more  active  maturity, 
the  glances  of  his  old  guide  over  the  Point  of  Garron,  upon  the 
first  memorable  day  of  his  journey  to  Cushindoll.  At  sight  of 
the  intruders,  Mr.  Walker  rose,  and,  with  a  self-command  that 
to  Evelyn  was  surprising,  calmly  inq aired  their  business. 

“  This  boy,”  answered  the  soldier,  “  says  he  has  come  through 
all  the  enemy’s  lines,  with  a  letter  to  you,  sir,  from  General 
Kirke.” 

“From  Kirke  !”  cried  Mr.  Walker,  his  eyes  flashing.  “  Im¬ 
possible  ;  the  brat  deceives  us.” 

“  Na,  then,”  said  the  boy,  stoutly  and  pertly,  “  he  does  na.” 

“  Who  are  you  ?”  asked  the  governor. 

“  A  ridin’  Rapparee,”  he  was  answered. 

“  What !  and  you  come  here,  young  spawn  of  Satan,  to  tell 
is  as  much.” 

“  Troth  jest,”  replied  the  lad,  coolly  ;  “  and  wi’  a  civil  letter 
til  your  honor.” 

“  Where  is  it,  imp  ?” 

The  young  thief  drew  his  skein  out  of  a  broad  belt  of  undressed 
horse-skin,  and  with  it  cut  off  a  large  cloth  button  from  his  jacket 
of  purple  velvet,  which,  united  to  its  skirts,  now  invisible,  had 
once  been  w'orn  by  a  different  character. 


MO 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  But,”  he  continued,  after  having  held  out  and  drawn  back 
his  hand,  “  bide  a  wee,  and  I’se  tell  your  worship  a’  about  it. 
It’s  no  lang  since  I  joined  wi’  the  southern  Rapparees.  And 
hearing  them  say  ane  til  another,  that  your  worship  would  gi’  a 
muckle  penny  for  a  bit  writing  frae  General  Kirke,  and  some 
talking  o’  the  venture — for  your  honor  kens  the  Rapparees  are 
no  at  ony  particular  side,  but  a  wheen  poor  bodies  striving  to 
live  on  their  ain  account — throth  jest,  why  I  thought  I  might 
e’en  try  it  myself.  So  I  e’en  went  :  and  here  I  am,  wi’  the 
writing  in  this  muckle  button,  when  your  honor  has  the  siller 
ready.” 

“  Guard  the  door,”  said  Mr.  Walker  to  the  soldier  ;  “  and 
if  this  fry  of  wickedness  deceives  us,  let  him  sorely  rue  it. 
Here,”  he  continued,  handing  a  purse  ;  “  and  now  let  me  have 
your  button.” 

The  young  Rapparee  deliberately  emptied  the  purse  on  the 
table,  sounded  and  counted  the  pieces  one  by  one,  and  at  last 
said : 

“  Your  honor  will  just  gi’  me  three  jacobuses  along  wi’  it,  and 
I’se  gi’  your  honor  the  button.” 

“  Rascal  !”  cried  Walker,  snatching  it,  “  you  are  already 
overpaid.” 

He  cut  round  the  button,  and  found  it  to  contain  a  piece  of 
paper,  folded  small  and  hard,  which  he  hastily  opened,  and 
read  with  devouring  eyes.  Strong  emotion  shook  him,  as  he 
proceeded  ;  and  he  had  not  yet  ended,  when,  a  moment  for¬ 
getful  of  the  presence  of  the  spectators,  he  broke  into  a  shrill, 
“  Ah  !” — struck  the  paper  triumphantly,  and  shouted  “  All’s  not 
lost.” 

In  an  instant,  however,  he  corrected  himself,  ordered  the  boy 
out  of  the  room,  and  desired  him  to  be  well  looked  after  till  he 
should  require  his  attendance.  Then  finishing  the  reading  of  his 
dispatch,  he  handed  it  exultingly  to  Evelyn. 

It  proved,  indeed,  to  be  a  genuine  letter  from  Kirke,  inform¬ 
ing  Mr.  Walker  that  he  had  received  his  last  letter  ;  that  finding 
it  impossible  to  approach  the  city,  he  had  sent  round  a  party  to 
Inch,  a  small  island  found  in  Lough  Swilly,  after  coasting  round 
Inishowen  Point,  and  was  about  to  follow  them,  in  order,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  to  divert  the  enemy  from  the  town.  That  he  expected  a 
large  force  from  England  ;  and,  along  with  less  important  things, 
that  he  had  stores  and  provisions  for  Deryy,  and  was  determined 
to  relieve  it 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  341 

44  This,  then,”  said  Evelyn,  when  he  had  perused  the  letter, 
u  will  put  an  end,  I  presume,  to  the  treaty  with  Hamilton.” 

44  As  the  Lord  liveth,  it  shall,”  answered  Mr.  Walker. 

44  Yet,  like  some  others,”  continued  Evelyn,  44it  is  a  treaty 
concluded  upon.” 

44  Tush,  let  it  be.  But  we  should  temporize  somewhat.  This 
party  to  Inch  souuds  so  triflingly  that  it  will  never  induce  the 
city  to  reckon  on  speedy  relief.  Give  me  the  pen.” 

Without  ceremony,  Mr.  Walker  substituted  for  the  words, 
44  a  party  to  Inch,”  44  six  thousand  horse  and  nine  thousand  foot 
to  Inch  and — 

“That,”  he  added,  44 reads  better,  and  will  give  them  hopes 
and  spirit  to  quash  this  treaty.” 

“False  hopes,  sir,”  said  Evelyn,  rather  warmly,  as  in  this 
well-known  act  he  read  a  trait  of  the  real  character  of  the  gov¬ 
ernor — 44  false  hopes,  sir,  to  tempt  falsity  to  a  wretched  crowd, 
already  distressed  beyond  another  day’s  dependence  upon  even 
certain  relief.” 

44  Boy,”  cried  Mr.  Walker,  trembling  with  impatience,  “how 
can  you  judge  the  policy  of  experienced  men?  I  fear — though 
all  along  my  heart  yearned  to  your  father’s  son — I  fear  I  have 
been  mistaken  in  your  zeal  and  spirit,  and  most  of  all,  in  your 
feeling  for  me.  What  !  would  you  so  meekly  prepare  for  degra¬ 
dation  and  ruin,  and  so  readily  abandon  me,  your  appointed 
teacher,  to  the  mercy  of  the  merciless?  Would  you — but  leave 
me  ! — I  am  carried  beyond  Christian  temper  ;  leave  me  to  my 
reflections.” 

Evelyn,  taking  him  at  his  word,  departed  to  Edmund’s  quar¬ 
ters.  lie  found  him  safely  past  the  crisis  of  his  fever  ;  sensible, 
but  weak  as  an  infant.  This  was  about  the  middle  of  July.  In 
a  few  days,  the  patient  proposed  to  visit  Esther,  concerning  whom 
his  inquiries  had,  from  the  moment  he  regained  his  senses,  been 
continual,  while  Evelyn  gave  him  only  evasive  answers.  Now 
he  insisted  on  seeing  her.  His  friend  urgently  opposed  him, 
and,  for  the  present,  Edmund  complied  with  his  entreaties. 

During  another  week,  Evelyn  watched  by  his  bedside,  now 
scarcely  provided  with  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  his  friend’s 
parched  lips,  and  almost  destitute  of  a  scrap  of  food  for  his  own 
mouth  :  Jerry  offered,  indeed,  some  brandy,  which  Evelyn  had 
not  recollection  to  wonder  how  he  could  have  obtained,  and 
which  he  only  declined.  Still  the  governor’s  hopes  of  relief  from 
General  Kirke  seemed  vain  and  ill-founded.  The  last  horse  of 


342 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  garrison  had  been  slaughtered  and  devoured  ;  and  a  true, 
though  perhaps  not  very  agreeable  idea  of  the  wants  of  the  sol¬ 
diers  and  people  will  be  formed,  when  it  is  known  that  consider¬ 
able  sums  were  offered  for  cats,  rats,  mice,  horse-blood,  raw 
hides,  greaves,  and  such  offal,  while  a  dog,  “fattened  on  the 
bodies  of  the  Papists,”  was  invaluable. 

Before  the  30th  of  July,  Edmund’s  strength,  notwithstanding 
the  foul  and  scanty  food  he  received,  was  somewhat  recruited, 
and,  on  that  day,  he  found,  or  fancied  himself  able  to  resume, 
with  more  consistency,  his  determination  of  visiting  Esther.  In 
Evelyn’s  absence  he  rose  and  dressed  himself  ;  and  was  met  by 
his  friend,  preparing  to  go  out. 

“  You  see,”  he  said,  “  I  am  not  to  die  without  beholding 
her  ;  let  us  go  together  ;  if  you  refuse  me  I  shall  go  alone.” 

Thus  urged,  Evelyn  gave  him  his  arm,  himself  scarce  able  to 
walk.  Upon  this  memorable  morning,  the  garrison  of  seven 
thousand  five  hundred  men,  regimented  in  Derry  about  three 
months  before,  was  reduced  to  four  thousand.  Even  of  these, 
one  thousand  were  disabled  ;  and  more  than  ten  thousand  of  the 
population  had  died.  As  the  friends  slowly  walked  along,  the 
streets  seemed  deserted  by  the  living.  Groups  of  dead  bodies 
almost  exclusively  filled  them  ;  here  and  there  a  famished  wretch 
dropped  down  dead,  or  to  die.  In  one  case,  indeed,  they  saw  a 
frightful  instance  of  life  and  death  linked  together,  where  a 
starving  infant  sprawled  upon  the  breast  of  its  lifeless  mother, 
tearing  at  it  for  the  milk  that  was  dried  up  forever.  Further 
on,  an  affluent  gentleman,  dying  on  the  pavement,  stretched  out 
his  hat,  half-filled  with  gold,  to  a  beggar,  for  the  bone  he 
gnawed  :  and  the  beggar  spurned  the  gold.  A  very  old  man, 
respectable  too,  had  crawled  to  a  wall  to  devour  a  handful  of 
some  carrion  food,  and  a  young  lad,  stronger  than  he,  though 
like  him  a  skeleton,  tore  it  from  his  clutch,  and,  when  resistance 
was  offered,  dealt  him  a  stunning  blow.  Passing  by  the  church¬ 
yard,  the  bodies  of  those  recently  dead,  and  carelessly  buried, 
were  exposed  to  view,  rent  fifom  their  grave  by  a  succession  of 
the  showers  of  shells,  which  had  first  sent  many  of  them  thither, 
and  now  refused  them  its  repose. 

Buying  and  selling  was  at  an  end  ;  greeting  and  saluting, 
visiting  and  returning  of  visits.  Money  lost  its  artificial  value  ; 
there  was  no  food  that  it  could  purchase,  and  stark  hunger 
required  no  other  necessary.  Shops  were  left  open  or  shut  at 
random  j  houses  had  lost  their  tenants  :  the  man  inclined  to 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


343 


theft  might  rob  and  plunder  ;  but  when  he  was  ladeu  with 
booty  he  found  it  of  no  use,  and  he  cast  it  in  the  mire  of  the 
itreets. 

Distinctions  of  rank  were  almost  lost  ;  in  some  cases,  natural 
connection  was  forgotten.  There  were  no  masters — no  servants  ; 
they  had  no  reciprocal  duties  to  exercise  ;  or  else  common  suf¬ 
fering  equalized  them. 

The  friends  gained  Esther’s  house,  and  found  their  way,  un¬ 
ushered,  unattended,  into  her  presence.  She  was  sitting  in  an 
armchair,  dressed  in  white,  wasted  to  a  shadow  ;  her  blue  eyes 
enlarged,  and  glittering  ;  a  touch  of  fiery  red  on  her  cheeks  ; 
her  flattened  chest  laboring  with  respiration  ;  and  incapable  of 
moving  a  joint  of  her  body.  It  was  evident  that  her  former 
tendency  to  consumption  had  been  renewed  and  precipitated  by 
the  shocking  dist  resssherecently  experienced. 

As  Esther  recognized  her  brother  and  lover,  and  beheld  the 
horror  of  their  looks,  she  strove  to  smile  ;  Edmund  staggered 
against  the  wall.  She  could  not  even  speak  to  him,  but  silent 
tears  ran  down  her  burning  and  emaciated  cheeks. 

“  Ask  her  to  eat,”  whispered  the  mistress  of  the  house  ;  “  she 
so  loathes  the  only  things  we  can  offer  her,  that  the  poor  young 
lady  has  not  tasted  food  these  three  days.” 

Edmund  made  no  remark  ;  he  asked  no  question  ;  he  offered 
no  consolation  ;  he  spoke  not  a  word;  but  after  a  moment  of 
frenzied  agitation,  burst  out  of  the  room  into  the  street.  Eve¬ 
lyn  strove  to  follow  him  ;  but  the  desperate  and  unnatural 
strength  that  now  winged  the  despairing  lover,  made  pursuit 
useless  ;  and  at  last  Evelyn  dropped. 

Edmund  rushed  on  through  the  streets,  glaring  at  every  lonely 
wretch  he  met,  as  the  she-tiger  might  look  round  for  a  prey, 
when,  herself  famishing,  she  has  left  her  young  ones  in  the  lair, 
voracious  for  food.  He  ran  into  open  houses,  but  found  none  to 
answer  his  claim.  Continuing  his  course,  Jerry  approached 
him,  altogether  in  such  a  fashion,  that  had  Edmund  felt  any  woe 
less  than  his  present  one,  he  must  have  forgotten  it,  and  smiled. 
The  little  man  had  necessarily  suffered  in  proportion  with  all 
around  him ;  and  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  recently  supplied  by 
Evelyn,  and  always  too  large,  hung  in  helpless  waste  about  his 
limbs  ;  the  pockets,  by  the  way,  swelled  out  to  some  bulk.  The 
wound  in  his  foot,  growing  worse  every  day,  and  wholly  un¬ 
attended  to,  so  lamed  him  that  he  could  not  move  without  a 
prop;  and  lie  now  limped  along,  his  body  half-bent,  as  he  leaned 


344 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


with  both  hands  upon  a  short-handled  shovel,  procured,  Heaven 
knows  how  or  where;  his  motion  being,  crab-like,  backward. 

“  Food,  sir  ! — I  want  food  l”  cried  Edmund,  stopping  him. 

“And  so  do  I  !  But  what  of  that  ?”  said  Jerry.  “We  all 
want  something  or  other,  some  day  or  other.  What,  then,  I 
say  ? — be  hearty.  I  wonder  to  hear  people  about  me  talk  so  ; 
I  wonder  at  any  man’s  fretting,  who  can  have  a  pound  of  good 
cat’s  flesh  for  some  shillings;  a  house  to  cover  him,  and  a  good 
town  to  walk  in.  You  are  all  serious  people.  There  was  my 
sister  Janet,  never  satisfied,  and  she  has  just  kicked  the  bucket. 
Rest  her,  say  I  :  though  that’s  a  Papist  prayer,  ’tis  a  Christian 
one.  Rest  to  her  who  never  gave  it  to  any.” 

“  Unfortunate  old  man  !”  said  Edmund,  as  Jerry,  more  broken 
down  than  he  would  acknowledge,  or  even  suffer  himself  to  sus¬ 
pect,  sank  against  a  wall  ;  “  how  can  you  trifle  with  nature’s 
sorest  misery  ?  Your  niece,  too — Esther  Evelyn — gasps  for 
proper  food.  I  ask  you  to  help  me  to  some,  and  this  is  your 
answer.” 

“  So  bad  is  she  ?”  resumed  Jerry,  really  affected  ;  “  I  couldn’t 
think  that ;  and  they  wouldn’t  let  me  see  my  poor  niece.  Stop, 
I’ll  bring  you  where  we  can  have  good  things  ;  some  friends  of 
mine  in  the  camp — no  matter  whom — hearty  fellows,  I  promise 
you.  Poor  Esther  !  I  never  thought  it.  Come” — attempting 
to  rise,  he  fell  back  again — “  stop  ;  I’m  foundered  myself,  only 
there’s  no  use  in  believing  it.  Come,  I  say” — another  failure. 
“But  I  can’t,  though.  Here,  then,”  fumbling  at  his  pockets 
“  here’s  what  will  steady  me.  Did  you  never  admire  where  I 
got  the  drop  of  brandy,  now  and  then,  while  the  serious  poor 
souls  of  Derry  were  quarrelling  for  a  drop  of  water  ?” 

Edmund  impatiently  answered. 

“  Stop,  then  ; — bless  my  heart,  what  is  to  do  ?”  he  con¬ 
tinued,  as  dizziness,  and  benumbing  pain,  and  sickness  came  upon 
him.  “  Ship’s  in  a  fog — can’t  see  a  rope’s  length  ahead  ;  you’re 
a  hearty  lad” — grasping  Edmund’s  hand — “  I  know  how  it  is, 
now — get  to  the  Rapparees,  as  fast  as  you  can.  The  whole 
fleet  of  ’em  is  anchored  near  Ballougrv  hill ; — say  I  sent  you — ■ 
that’s  enough.”  He  grew  fainter,  but  rallied.  “  Shiver  my 
timbers — old  ship  going  down  ? — Tilly-vally  ;  it  all  comes  of 
thinking  of  it.  I’m  growing  serious — hearty,  still ;  and  so  we 
ride  any  squall.  Where’s  my  ballast ; — ay” — at  last  plunging 
a  hand  in  his  pocket — “  here  it  is,  if  it  would  but  come  out ; — 
merry,  goodmen  boys,  merry — 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


345 


**  *  I  met  a  fair  Rosy  by  a  mulberry-tree, 

And  though  Mass  was  my  notion,  my  devotion  was  she’  ” — 

a  shred  of  a  Rapparee  song,  which  Jerry  tried  to  repeal,  as  he 
still  tugged  at  his  pocket — 

“  ‘  I  met  a  fair  Ro - ’  ** 

His  voice  sank — his  eyes  fixed  ;  he  shivered — and  died 
Proving  that  hunger  will  not  spare  a  merry  man,  any  more  than 
a  serious  ;  and  that,  on  earth  at  least,  mind  cannot  live  without 
body,  however  well  disposed  to  life  it  may  be.  Certainly  if — - 
combined  with  simple-heartedness — good-humor  and  unaffected 
resignation  under  every  possible  evil,  could  ever  have  disarmed 
death,  poor  Jerry  would  be  alive  to  this  hour  to  boast  of  a  vic¬ 
tory. 

Edmund  seized  the  hand  he  had  thrust  into  his  pocket ;  it 
was  clasped  round  the  corked  neck  of  a  bladder,  half  filled  with 
brandy  :  in  Jerry’s  other  pocket  he  got  a  second  large  bladder, 
crumpled  into  a  lump  with  constant  squeezing.  Upon  sudden 
and  wild  impulse,  Edmund  drank  a  maddening  draught,  and 
gaining  from  it  an  accession  of  artificial  strength,  ran,  acting 
upon  Jerry’s  hint  concerning  the  Rapparees,  to  Butcher’s  gate. 

Here  he  told  the  men  the  object  of  his  speed,  and  offered 
them  the  brandy  as  a  bribe  to  open  the  gate.  They  readily 
took  the  liquor,  but  refused  him  egress.  He  became  furious  ; 
snatched  a  sword  from  one  of  them  ;  ran  on,  like  a  maniac,  to 
where  the  wall  was  not  much  more  than  a  dozen  feet  high, 
and  jumped  down  upon  a  soft  embankment  of  earth  and  sods. 
Shots  were  fired  after  him,  as,  regaining  his  legs,  he  raced  towards 
Ballougry  hill.  He  escaped  them,  and  gained  an  outpost  of  the 
Rapparees.  Edmund  knew  them  by  their  costume.  “Food, 
food  1”  he  cried,  breaking  through  them.  They  had  beheld  his 
approach  in  great  amazement,  rather  than  in  hostility  ;  and  it 
was  not  till  he  endeavored  to  force  them  aside,  that  they  offered 
violence  :  then,  however,  some  cuts  were  aimed  at  him,  and  he 
was  wounded  in  the  neck  and  arm.  But  still  he  made  way  ;  and 
in  a  few  moments  came  upon  the  main  body  of  freebooters,  as 
they  sat,  before  their  temporary  huts,  on  the  grass. 

“  Food  1 — give  me  food  1”  Sword  in  hand,  he  rushed  on  them 
but  now  his  strength  failed,  and  he  fell  prostrate. 

All  that  followed  was  like  a  dream.  He  afterwards  brought 


346 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


faintly  to  mind,  that  some  had  gathered  round  to  injure  him  ; 
some  to  save.  That  the  Whisperer  and  Galloping  Hogan  had 
questioned  him  ;  that  he  had  answered  ;  and  lastly,  that  as  if 
wrought  upon  by  his  sad  story,  the  rude  men  had  given  him  food 
and  wine.  Clasping  it  close,  he  made  a  second  desperate  effort, 
and  flew  back  to  the  city.  Little  opposition  was  offered  to  his 
entrance,  freighted  as  he  came.  The  gates  were  opened  ;  the 
soldiers  seized  him,  and  dragged  the  food  from  his  hands  ;  he 
saved  a  little,  and  gained  Esther’s  house.  She  was  not  at  home. 
He  learned  that,  according  to  her  daily  custom,  she  had  caused 
herself  to  be  borne  to  the  church,  to  attend  prayers,  which,  never 
neglected  in  the  city  since  the  beginning  of  the  siege,  were  now, 
in  their  terrible  distress,  more  than  ever  the  resource  of  the  pious. 
To  the  church  Edmund  hastened.  Pushing  in  among  a  great 
crowd,  he  vainly  looked  round  for  Esther.  Again  faintness  came 
upon  him,  and  he  sank  on  a  seat. 

For  some  time  he  was  insensible  to  every  thing.  Gradually, 
however,  the  feeble  though  shrill  tones  of  old  age  filled  his  ear  ; 
and  looking  towards  the  pulpit,  he  saw  it  occupied  by  a  very 
aged,  white-headed,  emaciated  clergyman,  who,  with  an  energy 
beyond  what  his  strength  could  bear,  was  preaching  to  the  mis¬ 
erable  people.  As  Edmund’s  eyes  turned  heavily  downward, 
the  shrill,  childish  voice  stopped  ;  theu  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
sudden  fall.  “  He  is  dead  1”  exclaimed  the  congregation. 

This  more  effectually  roused  Edmund.  He  saw  the  lifeless  body 
of  the  old  man  borne  from  the  pulpit.  Immediately  after,  Mr. 
Walker,  assisted  up  by  two  young  persons,  filled  his  place  ;  and 
at  the  same  moment  began  to  preach.  His  once  full  and  sono¬ 
rous  voice  was  at  times  husky  and  screaming  ;  sometimes  it  sunk 
into  a  hoarse  whisper.  But  so  hushed  was  the  crowd,  that  every 
cadence  of  that  whisper  was  audible. 

“  Gaunt  suffering  has  made  another  breach,”  he  said,  “  another, 
of  the  sorest ;  but,  as  is  my  duty,  I  mount  it.  Nor  do  I  fear  so 
to  do  ;  nor  shall  you  fear  for  me,  my  afflicted  brethren.  The 
voice  that,  even  in  a  prayer  for  us,  has  just  been  cut  short,  and 
silenced  on  the  earth  forever,  but  mounts  into  the  actual  pres¬ 
ence  of  God,  to  finish,  there,  the  petition  here  interrupted.  Al¬ 
though  its  echoes  have  failed  in  the  fretted  roof  of  this  holy 
place,  yet,  with  the  ear  of  faith  and  hope,  ye  can  still  hear  it 
ringing,  piteously  and  beseechingly,  before  the  footstool.  Let  us 
join  our  cries  to  it — our  cries  of  anguish  and  feebleness  ;  and 
surely  will  the  Lord  at  last  deliver  us.  As  when  Moses  lifted 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


.  347 


np  his  hands  upon  the  mount,  against  Amalek,  praying  that  the 
battle  might  be  turned,  and  it  was  ;  as  when  at  the  prayer  and 
sacrifice  of  Samuel,  the  Lord  discomfited  the  Philistines  by  thun¬ 
der,  aud  they  were  smitten  before  Israel ;  as  when  the  great  host 
came  up  against  Jerusalem,  and  Hezekiah  spread  the  letter  of 
their  captain  before  the  Lord,  praying  for  deliverance,  and  lie 
Lord  sent  His  destroying  angel  into  their  camp  ;  yea,  as  Shad- 
rach,  Meshech,  and  Abednego  were  delivered  from  the  furnace 
of  fire,  and  Daniel  from  the  lions’  den  ;  yea,  as  Elijah  obtained 
rain  when  the  famine  prevailed — ” 

The  preacher  was  interrupted  by  a  hoarse  weak  shout,  that 
came  from  abroad.  He  did  not  attempt  to  go  on.  Wild  with 
expectation,  he  turned  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  doorway,  and 
thither  the  feverish  glances  of  the  pallid  congregation  were  also 
directed.  The  shout  came  nearer  ;  voices  were  heard  at  the 
door.  At  first,  no  words  could  be  distinguished  ;  but  soon  a 
thousand  tongues  cried  :  “  The  ships  1  the  ships !” 

“  He  hath  heard  us  1”  exclaimed  Mr.  Walker,  dropping  on 
his  knees.  The  congregation,  uttering  cries  of  hope  and  anxiety, 
hastened  from  the  church.  Many  died  as  they  sat  or  stood  ;  in 
the  streets  as  they  staggered  along,  or  on  the  steps  leading  up  to 
the  walls.  When  almost  all  had  abandoned  the  church,  Ed¬ 
mund  looked  round  for  Esther.  He  found  her  left  helpless,  aud 
nearly  insensible.  He  caught  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  followed 
the  people. 

It  has  already  been  said  that,  from  the  northeast  side  of  the 
walls,  in  which  was  Butcher’s  gate,  a  full  view  of  the  river  could 
be  commanded.  The  whole  prospect  formed  a  pleasing  picture. 
The  horizon  was  bounded,  at  a  distance,  by  a  sweep  of  blue  hills, 
called  Magilligan’s  creeks.  About  five  miles  off,  a  line  of  low 
land,  on  which  stood  Culmore  fort,  ran  under  them,  into  the 
water,  swelling  high,  as,  at  the  left  hand,  it  came  near  and 
nearer,  and  overtopped,  in  its  continuation,  by  the  barren  sum¬ 
mit  of  the  Inishowen  promontory.  To  the  right,  cutting  against 
the  blue  creeks,  rising  grounds  also  swept  into  the  water,  appa¬ 
rently  narrowing  it  from  thence  down  to  Culmore  fort,  but  allow¬ 
ing  it  to  spread,  up  to  the  city,  into  a  fine  sheet.  And,  at  the 
back  of  this  last  little  point,  appeared  the  formidable  boom, 
crossing  the  river  to  the  opposite  shore. 

Esther  continued  nearly  insensible,  as  Edmund  bore  her  to 
the  walls.  But  when  they  had  gained  them,  she  recovered  suf¬ 
ficiently  to  understand  what  was  going  forward. 


348 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Eat,  eat,”  he  then  cried,  eagerly — “  eat,  my  beloved.  Yon 
but  want  strength — nourishing  food.  And  here — this  is  nutri¬ 
tive  and  good  ;  and  this  wine  is  also  gentle  and  strengthening.” 

“  In  a  moment/’  she  replied,  very  faintly.  “  But  first  set  me 
down,  and  look  you  over  the  walls,  and  tell  me  how  this  ends 
Let  me  hear  that  you  and  Evelyn — where  is  Evelyn  ?” 

“  I  know  not — among  the  crowd — but  safe — safe,  dearest 
Esther.” 

“  Let  me  first  hear  that  he  and  you  are  to  be  saved  indeed. 
And  then —  But  set  me  down,  Edmund.” 

He  complied,  and  cast  his  eyes  around,  and  over  the  water. 
Near  him,  and  at  every  side  from  which  a  glimpse  of  the  boom 
could  be  obtained,  the  ghastly  crowd  thronged  close  ;  sons  bear¬ 
ing  their  parents,  brothers  their  fainting  sisters,  husbands  their 
fainting  wives  ;  friends  supporting  each  other,  in  lines  and 
groups,  with  arms  locked  or  hands  clasped.  And  as  they  stood, 
silent  and  breathless,  in  the  garish  sunshine  of  that  midsummer 
day,  all  looking  more  like  a  concourse  of  the  dead,  placed  up¬ 
right  out  of  their  graves,  than  living  men  to  whom  its  ray  was 
dear. 

And  all  eyes  strained  down  the  broad  river,  up  which,  by 
Culmore  fort,  four  gallant  vessels  just  then  came,  with  a  fair 
and  fresh  breeze,  canvas  crowded,  and  flags  and  pennons  flying. 
A  light  frigate,  the  convoy  of  the  storeships,  led  the  van.  She 
had  been  exposed  to  a  terrible  fire  from  the  old  fort  ;  but  she 
had  passed  it,  giving  more  than  one  broadside,  and  hauled  her 
wind,  and  lay  to,  in  order  to  cover  the  other  vessels,  till  they 
should  get  ahead  of  her.  This  they  effected,  and  all  steadily 
approached  the  ponderous  boom,  though  still  receiving  the  fire 
of  hundreds  of  small-arms  from  the  shore.  The  largest  of  the 
store-ships  at  last  ran  straight  for  the  boom. 

“  What  is  that  ?”  inquired  Esther,  as  she  heard  a  drawing-in 
and  hissing  of  breath  among  the  miserable  multitude,  which 
sank  into  a  hollow  groan. 

“  A  ship  has  struck  the  boom,”  answered  Edmund,  “  but  with- 
out  injuring  it  ;  while,  with  the  shock,  herself  rebounds  and  runs 
ashore.  And  now” — a  loud  yell  echoed  along  the  banks  of  the 
river — “  now  the  Irish  put  off  in  boats  to  board  her.” 

“  God’s  will  be  done  !”  said  Esther,  scarcely  audible. 

He  cast  himself  on  his  knees,  by  her  side,  and  renewned  his 
entreaties  that  she  would  taste  food  and  wine.  Of  the  latter 
she  allowed  him  to  give  her  a  mouthful. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


349 


“  Despair  not  yet,  my  people,”  he  then  heard  Mr.  Walker 
say  near  him  ;  “  the  frigate  will  guard  the  stranded  ship — will 
resist  and  overcome  them.  See  now  her  brave  crew  man  the 
deck,  and  her  gallant  captain,  hat  in  hand,  cheers  them.  Ha  ! 
— he  drops.” 

A  second  groan  came  from  the  unhappy  crowd. 

“  But  her  crew  are  not  dispirited,”  the  governor  continued  ; 
“  they  divert  the  fire  of  the  batteries  and  lines  from  the  other 
ships.  And  up  another  comes.  But,  no  ;  hers  will  not  be  the 
glory.  The  first  bold  adventurer  frees  herself  with  that  broad¬ 
side,  and  once  more  she  runs  for  the  boom.” 

The  crowd  again  sucked  in  their  breath,  and  their  arms  and 
hands  were  raised,  and  waved  in  sympathy  of  action  with  every 
movement  they  saw. 

“  Esther,  my  life,  my  only  life !”  cried  Edmund,  as  she  grew 
worse,  gasping  piteously.  “Take  heart,  my  beloved  ;  all  will 
be  happy  still.  Eat,  eat,  sweet  Esther,”  he  continued,  tears 
blinding  him  ;  “  only  eat — or  droop  not  for  this — the  bold  vessel 
tries  it  again  !” — starting  to  his  feet.  “  Now,  Esther  ! — ” 

“Now  !”  echoed  Mr.  Walker,  pressing  his  lips  together,  and 
his  arms  over  his  breast.  In  a  second  after — “  Long  live  King 
William  ! — huzza !”  he  shouted  aloud. 

A  hoarse  and  awful  cry  of  joy  burst  from  the  spectators,  as 
now,  indeed,  the  strong  ship,  again  striking  the  monstrous  impedi¬ 
ment,  broke  it  into  pieces,  and,  followed  by  her  sister  vessels, 
sailed  on,  proudly  and  triumphantly,  to  succor  the  wretched 
city.  As  that  cry  arose,  the  last  breath  of  many  escaped  with 
it.  Joy  had  her  victims  as  well  as  famine  and  despair  ;  and 
Esther  was  among  the  number.  But,  in  her  case,  another  shock, 
of  a  different  kind,  assisted,  perhaps,  the  general  one. 

“  Hear  them,  my  adored  1”  exclaimed  Edmund,  as  the  people 
shouted. 

“  She  hears  not  them  nor  you,”  said  the  voice  of  Onagh,  at 
Esther’s  back,  now  sounding  rather  sorrowful  than  stern.  But 
her  words,  at  least,  the  maiden  heard  ;  for,  starting  from  lief 
lethargy,  her  eyes  fixed  their  last  look  on  Onagh,  and  then 
closed. 


350 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  relapse  into  fever  was  the  instant  consequence  of  the  shock 
Buffered  by  Edmund.  Evelyn  also  fell  a  victim  to  the  same 
disease,  against  which  he  had,  indeed,  long  struggled.  When 
consciousness  returned,  his  recollections  of  the  past  were  dull, 
and  of  its  saddest  event  he  half  doubted.  The  first  person  who 
spoke  at  his  bedside  was  a  good  old  Protestant  clergyman,  long 
the  friend  of  his  family.  The  next  face  he  saw  was  that  of 
Father  M’Donnell.  The  two  old  men  comforted  him  ;  but 
delicately  and  dexterously  avoided  much  conversation.  Evelyn 
himself  did  not  dare  to  ask  one  certain  question.  In  a  few 
days  more,  Father  M’Donnell  spoke  of  Eva.  When  the  invalid 
had  been  sufficiently  prepared,  there  was  a  rustle  among  the 
drapery  of  his  bed  ;  then  a  tender  murmuring,  and  Eva  sank  on 
his  breast.  She  had  watched  his  pillow  since  the  day  after  he 
became  ill. 

Still  afraid  of  the  question  that  lay  at  his  heart,  he  asked  for 
Edmuud.  She  arose  and  left  the  room  ;  but  speedily  returned 
with  her  brother  by  the  hand.  Evelyn  saw  that  both  were 
habited  in  black.  He  was  at  last  satisfied. 

The  meeting  with  Edmund  was  mute  as  the  grave.  They 
only  pressed  each  other’s  hands.  Evelyn  was  shocked  at  the 
appearance  of  M’Donnell.  It  was  not  emaciation  and  paleness 
alone  that  gave  his  figure,  face,  and  manner  an  altered  char¬ 
acter. 

“  Much  as  we  have  suffered  together,  I  should  not  know 
you,”  said  Evelyn. 

M’Donnell  withdrew,  almost  snatched  away  his  hand,  and, 
with  an  abrupt  and  husky  “  Tush  !  and  why  not  ?”  turned  to  a 
window.  Eva  whispered,  that,  apart,  from  other  causes  of 
bitter  despair,  her  brother  had  lately  been  dismissed,  with  a 
severe  and  degrading  sentence,  from  his  regiment  ;  and  that  the 
effect  of  all  his  afflictions  had  made  him  fearfully  reserved  and 
ungentle.  It  was  but  too  evident,  indeed,  that  he  was  devoured 
by  the  stern  sorrow  that  fastens  upon  the  heart,  empoisons  its 
life-springs,  and  causes  them  to  flow  in  sullen  and  selfish  misan¬ 
thropy. 

When  Evelyn  grew  much  better,  passes  and  protections  were 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


351 


through  his  interest,  and  that  of  the  kind  Protestant  clergy¬ 
man,  obtained  for  Edmund,  Eva,  and  Priest  M’Donnell,  and 
all  prepared  to  visit  Glenarriff.  The  perfect  re-establishment  of 
Evelyn’s  health  made  such  a  change  necessary.  But  he  was 
further  tempted.  Eva,  expressing  her  zeal  in  the  public  cause 
to  be  much  cooled  since  Edmund’s  undeserved  ill-treatment  by 
King  James’s  officers,  listened  to  his  whispers  for  a  future  re¬ 
union  of  their  hands  and  fate,  in  her  father’s  house,  at  the  Strip 
of  Burne.  And  now,  other  reasons  made  all  most  anxious  to 
leave  Derry. 

Tidings  arrived  that  Schomberg,  at  the  head  of  an  army  of 
twenty  thousand  Englishmen  and  foreigners,  had  landed  near 
Carrickfergus  ;  reduced  it  and  Belfast ;  and  proceeded  south¬ 
ward  towards  Dublin.  While  Kirke,  with  his  considerable  force, 
marched  from  Derry  to  join  him.  Colonel  Lloyd,  commander 
of  all  the  remnants  of  the  northern  Protestant  levies,  now  col¬ 
lected  into  a  body,  and  called  by  the  general  name  of  Enniskil- 
leners,  after  also  forming  an  unwelcome  junction  with  Schomberg, 
continued  in  his  rear,  making  incursions  among  the  Roman 
Catholic  people  of  the  country,  and  acquitting  himself  much  to 
the  satisfaction  of  his  corps,  who  honored  him  with  the  title  of 
“  their  little  Cromwell.” 

From  one  or  other  of  these  cruel  men,  Eva  and  Edmund 
feared  an  attack  on  their  father,  at  Glenarriff  :  hence  arose  the 
increased  anxiety  of  all  to  commence  their  journey. 

The  day  was  at  length  appointed.  Upon  the  evening  before 
it,  Evelyn  secretly  left  the  house,  and  walked  to  the  adjacent 
churchyard.  He  wished  to  bid  farewell  to  the  mouldering 
remains  of  his  sister  ;  and  also  to  judge,  from  the  situation 
of  her  grave,  of  the  fittest  kind  of  monument  to  be  raised 
over  it.  When  the  sexton  led  him  to  the  spot,  he  found  his 
second  intention  anticipated.  A  little  white  marble  urn 
already  rose  above  the  grave  ;  and,  looking  close,  in  the 
waning  light,  he  read  thereon  —  “  Farewell,  Esther  !  — 
Ed.  M’D.” 

As,  deeply  touched,  he  stood  by  the  urn,  a  soft  step  ap¬ 
proached.  It  was  Eva  :  he  concealed  himself.  She  bore  on 
her  arm  a  little  garland  of  white  flowers.  Gaining  the  spot  on 
which  Evelyn  had  just  stood,  she  gazed  at  the  base  of  the  mon¬ 
ument,  as  if  her  eyes  could  have  pierced  the  dense  earth,  and 
riveted  themselves  on  the  still  features  of  her  sister.  Then  she 
removed  from  the  urn  a  faded  garland  ;  and,  weeping  profusely, 


352 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


fell  on  her  knees,  and  prayed,  according  to  the  usage  of  her 
Church,  for  the  happiness  of  the  soul  of  Esther  Evelyn. 

Some  stones  tumbled  from  the  wall  of  the  churchyard  ;  a 
man  jumped  over,  pulling  his  hat  over  his  brows,  muffling  him¬ 
self  in  his  cloak,  and  looldng  fiercely  around.  Eva  hastily  arose, 
threw  the  fresh  garland  over  the  urn,  and  retired.  The  man 
walked  forward,  still  glancing  behind  and  around  him.  When 
he  thought  he  was  unobserved  and  alone,  he  suddenly  flung 
himself  on  the  earth  where  Eva  had  knelt,  spreading  out  his 
arms,  and  grasping  the  long  grass  in  his  convulsed  hands,  while 
every  muscle  quivered,  and  his  sobs  echoed  through  the  church¬ 
yard.  Evelyn  knew  it  was  Edmund.  Some  slight  noise  occurred, 
and  M’Donnell  started  up,  again  pulled  down  his  hat,  ran  to 
the  wall,  and  bounded  over  it. 

Evelyn  came  from  his  concealment ;  took  his  own  farewell  of 
his  sister’s  grave,  and  returned,  stealthily,  to  his  chamber.  The 
friends  did  not  meet  that  night.  ;  and  each  supposed  the  other 
was  ignorant  of  the  sad  visit  which  each  had  paid  in  the  church¬ 
yard. 

Early  next  morning,  accompanied  by  Father  M’Donnell,  and, 
to  insure  their  safety,  the  Protestant  clergyman,  they  left  the 
city  of  Derry. 

“  Does  Schomberg’s  army  contain  many  veteran  foreigners, 
sir  ?”  asked  Evelyn  of  his  reverend  friend,  when  they  had  been 
some  time  on  the  road. 

“  About  a  fourth,  mostly  French.  William  does  not  think  he 
can  yet  spare  many  Dutch,  from  England.  And  upon  the  same 
policy,  this  newly-raised  force  of  English  is  generalled  by  a 
brave  old  soldier  of  fortune,  who  has,  from  time  to  time,  served 
every  rival  court  in  Europe,  always  most  faithful  to  his  tempora- 
ry  paymaster,  though  indifferent  to  the  principle  of  the  cause  he 
zealously  promotes  in  his  name.  Therefore,  perhaps,  very  fit  to 
conduct  a  war  like  this,  in  which  partv-spirit  runs  so  high.'’ 

“  The  sending  of  Kirke  to  assist  our  northern  efforts,  may 
have  savored  of  the  same  policy,”  resumed  Evelyn.  “A  man 
whose  indifference  to  cause  or  country  is  as  notorious  as  his  in¬ 
famy.” 

“  Know  you  what  road  Kirke  has  taken  towards  Schomberg’s 
quarters,  sir  ?”  asked  Eva,  in  alarm. 

“  The  same  we  now  pursue,”  replied  the  clergyman.  “  But 
do  not,  my  good  young  lady,  give  way  to  uneasiness.  He  has 
scarce  a  day’s  march  of  us,  and,  with  our  good  horses,  we  may 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


353 


easily  come  up  with  his  division  before  he  gains  the  point  I  know 
you  think  about  ;  and  when  we  do  join  him,  our  documents  will 
fully  protect  all.  But  let  us  push  hard.” 

The  injunction  was  unnecessary.  Those  that  heard,  were  most 
anxious  to  anticipate  it.  With  scarce  a  rest  or  pause,  night  or 
day,  the  little  party  held  on  for  Glenarriff,  over  the  same  road 
by  which  Mr.  Walker  had  led  Evelyn  and  his  sister  to  Derry. 

The  sultry  evening,  one  in  the  latter  end  of  August,  had  iust 
begun  to  approach,  when  Eva  recognized,  from  a  distance,  the 
well-known  line  of  hills  that  inclosed  Glenarriff. 

“  We  are  now  past  all  danger  from  those  whom  you  consider 
as  our  foes,”  resumed  the  clergyman,  at  this  period  of  their  jour¬ 
ney.  “  Kirke  must  have  deviated  from  our  route,  soon  after 
leaving  Derry,  otherwise  we  should,  ere  this,  have  certainly  over 
taken  him.” 

“  God  grant  it,  sir,”  cried  Eva. 

“  While  I,  and  my  loyal  Protestant  charge,”  continued  the 
clergyman,  “  have  now  a  right  to  fear  for  our  own  safety,  in  en¬ 
tering  these  remote  and  hilly  fastnesses,  amongst  which,  it  is 
reported,  that  young  wild-cat,  Yamen-ac-JcnucJc,  occasionally 
wanders  with  his  freebooters.” 

Eva  and  Evelyn  (Edmund  remaining  silent,  as  he  rode  a  short 
distance  behind,  during  the  whole  journey)  expressed  their  igno¬ 
rance  of  the  individual  spoken  of,  and  inquired  if  he  was  a  new 
Rapparee  captain,  accommodated  with  the  nom-de-guerre  men¬ 
tioned,  Yamen-ac-knuck,  or  Ned  of  the  hill. 

Their  informant  replied  that  they  had  conjectured  aright 
“We  heard  nothing  of  him  in  Derry  until  after  the  relief  of  the 
place.  Then,  however,  his  exploits  reached  us,  together  with 
some  accounts,  true  or  false  as  they  may  be,  of  his  person  and 
private  history.  He  is  said  to  be  a  mere  lad,  who  joined  the 
Rapparee  body  only  while  they  lay  near  Hamilton’s  camp,  pre¬ 
tending  to  give  that  general  assistance.  When  the  Irish  retreat¬ 
ed  southward,  the  Rapparees,  as  is  always  their  custom  on  such 
occasions,  broke  into  different  bodies.  One  portion  of  them 
remaining  without  a  commander,  it  is  added  that  this  boy,  on 
account  of  the  many  instances  he  had  given  of  great  personal 
courage,  ferocity  rather,  and  of  cleverness  in  other  needful  re¬ 
spects,  was  unanimously  elected  by  them.  Since  when,  he  has 
outdone  all  his  predecessors  in  those  acts  which  make  the  repu¬ 
tation  of  a  Rapparee  commander.  Other  accounts  add,  that  he 
is  partly  indebted  for  his  sudden  elevation  to  a  visit  which  he 


354: 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


made  to  Derry,  during  the  siege  ;  when,  on  some  private  business, 
he  had  audience  of  the  governor,  and,  along  with  a  considerable 
purse,  honestly  obtained  from  him,  carried  back  plunder  to  a 
great  amount,  of  which  the  desolate  state  of  the  town  enabled 
him  to  possess  himself,  and  which  gained  him  much  considera¬ 
tion  with  his  fellows.” 

“  I  begin  to  think  I  have  had  the  honor  of  knowing,  for 
nany  years,  the  distinguished  person  you  speak  of,”  said 
Evelyn. 

“  Indeed  1”  and  the  clergyman  was  about  to  make  inquiries, 
when,  with  a  faint  scream,  Eva,  unconsciously,  as  it  seemed, 
backed  her  jennet,  pointing  towards  the  middle  of  the  line  of 
hill  that,  at  the  right  hand,  formed  the  boundary  of  the  valley 
of  Glenarriff,  into  which,  at  the  end  opposite  to  the  entrance 
from  the  coast,  they  were  now  turning. 

All  looked,  and  saw  the  black  ruins  of  a  cabin,  recently  burnt 
down,  before  which,  from  the  branch  of  a  tree,  a  man’s  body 
was  suspended. 

“  He  has  been  in  the  glen  !”  she  cried,  now  urging  her  jennet 
forward. 

Edmund  spoke  not  a  word.  Regarding  for  a  moment  the 
object  to  which  every  eye  was  directed,  he  turned  deadly  pale, 
set  his  teeth,  made  a  motion  to  draw  the  sword,  which  he  had 
not,  felt  for  pistols,  of  which  he  was  also  deprived,  and  then 
dashing,  in  rage  and  desperation,  the  rowels  into  his  steed,  soon 
came  up  with  Eva.  Evelyn  rapidly  followed  them.  The  two 
old  clergymen  stood  a  moment  behind,  one  uplifting  his  hands, 
the  other,  with  uncovered  head,  crossing  himself.  Both  then 
also  hastened  down  the  glen. 

As  the  party  proceeded,  the  few  cabins  on  their  way,  at  the 
right  hand  and  at  the  left,  presented  the  same  ruinous  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  first  they  had  beheld.  But  nothing  told  that  the 
destroyers  were  at  present  in  the  valley.  The  silence  of  death 
reigned  over  it.  No  human  tones  broke  the  deep  repose  of  the 
hill  side,  or  of  its  rocky  and  barren  summit.  Not  even  the  low 
of  a  cow,  or  the  bark  of  a  household-dog  was  heard  ;  naught 
but  the  voices  of  waterfalls,  far  and  near,  which,  blended  in  one 
hoarse  whispering  cadence,  might  seem  to  lament  the  devastation 
that  had  visited  their  ancient  demesne. 

On  spurred  the  little  party,  in  hopelessness  and  horror,  every 
step  they  moved  adding  confirmed  anticipations  of  the  worst. 
They  gained  a  glance  of  the  Strip  of  Burne,  and  Eva  and  Ed- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


355 


mund  beheld  the  humble  home  that  had  sheltered  their  child¬ 
hood  half  burnt-down,  and  yet  smoking  in  the  evening  sun. 
From  the  sycamores  and  ash  trees  that  had  once  shadowed  it, 
those  cf  their  poor  followers  who  had  dared,  after  the  landing 
of  Schomberg,  to  cling  to  the  house  of  their  chief,  hung  dead. 

Indescribable  passion  kept  the  brother  and  sister  silent  and 
motionless,  for  a  time. 

“  Our  father  I”  they  exclaimed  at  last,  as,  flinging  themselves 
from  their  horses,  they  prepared  to  rush  forward,  partly  in  the 
wild  hope  that,  as  his  dead  body  did  not  appear,  he  might  have 
escaped. 

“  How  1  the  song  of  mirth  amid  ruin  and  desolation  ?”  cried 
Eva,  as,  after  a  few  steps,  the  tones  of  a  harp  met  her  ear. 
Turning  the  angle  of  an  intervening  bank,  she  saw  Carolan 
seated,  immediately  before  the  ruin,  on  the  smooth,  flat  stone, 
where  he  was  accustomed  to  strike  up  his  announcing  lay.  The 
contrast  between  his  smiling  face  and  song  of  joy,  and  the  hor¬ 
rors  he  could  not  see,  petrified,  for  a  moment,  the  brother  and 
sister,  and  rooted  them  to  the  spot  ;  while  the  poor  blind  lad 
began  to  sing  words  like  the  following  : 

i. 

Come  out,  old  man,  at  dusk  of  day. 

Come  out  and  hear  the  harper  play ; 

For  I  have  rhymes, 

And  chimes 

Of  times  .ong  past  away. 

So  come  out,  come  out,  come  out,  old  man. 

And  hear  the  harper  play. 

n. 

Come  out,  young  girl,  and  list  my  lay : 

Young  girls  like  other  tunes,  they  say, 

And  I’ve  an  air, 

So  rare. 

To  cheer  the  fall  of  day. 

So  come  out,  come  out,  young  girl — come  out. 

And  hear  the  harper  play. 

m. 

Men,  women,  all — let  no  one  stay — 

Lads,  lasses,  boys,  or  old  wife  gray — 

Down  from  the  moon 
I’ll  croon, 

A  tune,  or  make  ye  gay, 

So  come  out,  come  out,  man,  woman,  child. 

And  hear  the  harper  play. 


356 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


But  before  he  had  ended  the  words  we  here  translate,  the 
brother  and  sister  broke  off  to  the  house  ;  Eva  shrieking,  as  she 
said — 

“  Great  God  !  he  thinks  he  plays  his  accustomed  air  to  ears 
that  still  hear  him  l” 

“  Who  speaks  ?”  cried  Carolan,  stopping  instantly.  “  Eva 
M’Donnell,  why  do  you  scream?”  He  arose,  anxiously  turn¬ 
ing  his  face  in  the  direction  where  he  had  heard  the  words. 
But  no  one  replied  to  him.  Evelyn  and  the  two  old  clergy¬ 
men  followed  the  brother  and  sister.  He  heard  the  rapid 
retreating  steps — then  silence — then  wilder  screams  within 
the  house.  In  vain  the  poor  harper  continued  to  demand, 
tears  of  mixed  agitation  and  bitterness,  at  being  so  aban¬ 
doned,  running  down  his  cheeks,  “  What  has  happened,  I 
say  ?  God  of  heaven  I  why  do  you  cry  out,  Eva  ?  Eva 
M’Donnell  1” 

Edmund,  his  sister,  and  Evelyn,  together  broke  through 
masses  of  fallen  thatch  and  wall,  that  choked  up  the  doorway, 
and  together  entered  a  part  of  the  large  room  of  the  house, 
which,  with  the  smoking  roof  yet  over  it,  was  most  free  from 
impediments.  The  dead  bodies  of  others  of  their  faithful 
followers  were  strewn  around,  half  covered  with  rubbish  ; 
wounds  on  their  fronts,  and  weapons  near  them,  told  that  they 
had  fallen  where  they  lay,  while  resisting  a  superior  force.  One 
other  glance  round,  and  Eva  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  corpse 
of  an  old  man  stretched  on  the  clotted  hearth.  Gashes  were 
visible  on  his  bald  head,  which  lay,  crimsoned  and  cold,  upon 
his  once  cheerful  hearthstone.  A  short,  straight,  basket-hilted 
sword  was  in  his  hand,  and  a  wounded  stag-hound  crouched  at 
his  feet.  At  the  first  noise  of  intruders,  the  faithful  animal 
opened  his  languid  eyes  ;  exposed,  without  being  able  to  utter  a 
sound,  his  formidable  tusks  ;  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  attack 
Evelyn,  but,  staggering,  fell  dead  across  the  body  of  his  old 
master. 

It  need  not  be  added  that  the  shrieks  Carolan  heard  were 
uttered  by  Eva.  As  she  cast  herself  upon  the  mangled  body  of 
her  only  parent,  they  rose,  peal  after  peal,  with  a  shrillness 
which  mortal  agony  could  alone  send  forth,  and  which,  pier¬ 
cing  through  the  open  roof  of  her  ruined  house,  re-echoed  to 
hill  and  rock,  far  beyond  the  place  where  the  harper  heard 
them. 

A  mile  and  more  from  where  he  stood,  they  were  heard  by 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


357 


the  man  who  had  caused  them,  and  who  rode  slowly,  at  the 
moment,  at  the  head  of  the  chosen  body  he  had  trained  to  such 
acts  as  this,  while  the  main  force  of  his  detachment  proceeded, 
at  some  distance,  on  their  route  southward. 

He  sat  stooped  in  his  saddle,  his  round  shoulders  and  slight 
figure  having  acquired  the  kind  of  crouch  (the  crouch  of  the 
tiger  before  he  springs)  which  sometimes  marks  the  turbaned 
race,  amongst  whom  he  had  learnt  his  humanity.  His  small, 
half-shut,  jetty  eye,  glanced  upwardly  around,  as  if  overshadowed 
by  the  turban  ;  and  as  he  rode  he  kept  twirling  his  coal-black 
moustaches,  which,  according  to  their  early  fashion,  he  wore 
unusually  long  and  curled.  Thus  sitting  silent,  and  watchful  of 
every  face  around,  while  none  dared  to  address  or  look  at  him, 
the  infamous  Kirke  heard  a  faint  echo  of  the  despairing  shrieks 
of  Eva. 

“  Hark  !  sergeant,”  he  said,  turning  himself  in  his  pad  ;  u  I 
think  there  be  some  of  my  lambs  not  yet  done  bleating.” 

“  With  submission  to  your  honor,  I  think  no,”  replied  the 
favored  sergeant,  returning  an  expressive  leer  ;  “  the  prettiest 
of  ’em,  in  that  wild  nook  below,  sleeps  by  this  time.” 

“  But  there  again  ;  heard  you  not  that  ?” 

J‘  I  believe  we  hear  but  the  cry  of  the  gull  on  the  shore 
yonder.” 

“  Thou  gull  and  goose  to  say  so  1  I  tell  thee  that  is  the 
bleat  of  one  of  my  little  lambs,  in  pain,  doubtless  ;  and  I 
will  not  leave  a  single  one  in  pain,  poor  things.  So  turn, 
sirrah.” 

The  troop  was  soon  in  rapid  motion,  back  to  the  vale  of 
Glenarriff. 

“  Cease,  Eva,  cease  1”  cried  Edmund,  sternly,  as  her  delirious 
sorrow  still  escaped  in  deafening  shrieks.  He  had  not,  himself, 
uttered  a  cry,  nor  spoken  a  word,  nor  wept  a  tear,  nor  flung 
himself  on  the  ground.  “  Cease  this  vain  frenzy,  girl.  Rise  ; 
aueel  at  that  side  of  our  father’s  corpse,  while  I  kneel  at  this  ; 
and  then  give  me  your  hands.” 

She  heard  or  heeded  him  not,  and  her  screams  still  rang 
out. 

“  Hear  me,  I  say  !”  he  continued,  the  dreadful  passion  that, 
like  the  intense  though  brooding  fire  of  a  kiln,  burned  within 
him,  now  getting  a  first  vent  in  impatience  at  not  being  obeyed. 
“  Sister  1  woman !  silence,  and  listen  to  the  voice  of  your  last 
relation  !” 


358 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


This  had  effect.  She  raised  up  her  head,  and  looked  at 
him. 

When  he  repeated  his  former  instructions,  Eva,  seeming  to 
understand  and  fully  sympathize  with  him,  hastily  knelt  at  the 
one  side  of  their  dead  father,  while  Edmund  knelt  at  the  other, 
and  gave  her  hands  across  the  body,  which  he  instantly  grasped 
in  his.  Eva’s  own  tears  were  at  last  dried  up  ;  her  features 
still,  though  terribly  rigid.  The  glaring  eyes  of  the  frantic 
brother  and  sister  fastened  on  each  other.  “  Let  us  now  swear 
an  oath,”  resumed  MJ Donnell.  “  Repeat  the  words  I  shall 
speak.” 

“  I  will,”  she  answered,  convulsively  pressing  his  hands. 

u  Here,  over  his  mangled  corpse,  by  the  blood  of  him  who 
gave  us  birth,  swear  1” 

She  repeated  the  words,  and  said — 

“  By  this  I  promise  to  swear.” 

Against  the  doers  of  the  murder — against  their  abettors 
and  their  cause — their  seed  and  breed,  root  and  branch — 
revenge,  by  every  plan  and  wile !  With  the  eye  of  the  wood- 
cat  to  watch  them — with  the  thirst  of  the  life-hound  to  track 
them — with  the  subtlety  of  the  hill-fox  to  encompass  them — - 
with  the  mercy  of  the  forest-wolf  to  deal  on  them  !  For  this 
we  give  up  all  other  practices  of  life — for  this,  while  we  swear 
to  hate  them,  we  forswear  their  fellowship — bread  never  to 
break  with  them,  roof  never  to  enter  with  them,  hand  never  to 
cross  with  them,  word  never  to  change  with  them,  with  those  of 
their  side  or  their  creed,  their  party  or  their  country,  their  blood 
or  their  descent,  their  race,  from  generation  to  generation !” 

“  Hold,  Eva,  and  remember  what  you  do  !”  cried  Evelyn. 

11  Forbear,  my  daughter,  and  swear  not,  in  madness,  a  horrid 
oath  !”  echoed  the  old  priest. 

“  Hide  ye,  or  fly  !”  interrupted  the  agitated  voice  of  Carolan, 
through  the  choked  doorway.  “  Fly,  or  hide  ye  !  they  are  up¬ 
on  ye  !  I  heard  their  tramp,  tramp,  down  the  glen  ;  and  I 
know  the  trooper’s  tramp,  so  different  from  our  own.” 

“Who  are  upon  us ?”  questioned  Edmund,  his  voice  and 
manner  changed  into  a  kind  of  satisfied  composure,  as  if  all  he 
wished  was  near  at  hand,  in  the  approach  of  his  enemies,  al¬ 
though  he  stood  so  poorly  prepared  to  receive  them.  As  he 
spoke,  he  rose  slowly  from  his  knees,  still  holding  his  sister’s 
hand,  and  obliging  her  also  to  stand  up.  Evelyn  flew  to  take 
her  other  hand. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


359 


u  Who  comes  ?”  repeated  the  harper,  “  who  but  those  who 
were  here  before,  returning  to  eud  their  work  ?  But  if — where 
is  Eva  M’Donnell  ?  If  ye  can  hide,  behind  rock  or  hill,  for  a 
little  start  of  time,  I  have  sent  word  to  some  who  may  yet  save 
us.  Where  is  she  ?  Let  Eva  give  me  her  hand  ;  I  can  guide 
her,  blind  as  I  am.” 

“  Eva  M’Donnell  holds  by  her  brother’s  hand,  Carolaft,”  re¬ 
joined  Edmund. 

“  And  will  not  let  it  go,”  added  Eva. 

“  Where  have  you  sent,  or  on  whom  have  you  called  ?”  asked 
Evelyn,  more  collected  than  his  wretched  friends. 

“  When  ye  left  me  alone,  by  the  flat  stone,  Con  M’Donnell 
came  from  his  hiding-place  and  threw  himself,  weeping,  at  my 
feet.  He  did  not  see  ye  enter  the  glen  ;  he  could  not  hear  the 
tramp  of  the  red-coats  ;  but  I  did.  And,  as  I  knew  his  signs 
from  Eva,  I  sent  him  to  seek  one  who  spoke  to  me  on  my  path, 
as  I  crossed  the  hills  this  morning,  and  who  can  save  ye,  if  he 
will.  So  hide  ye,  hide  ye,  as  ye  can.  Whisht !  I  hear  them 
nearer  and  nearer — now  there  is  little  time.  But  yet,  use  it — 
make  speed  1” 

“  It  were  useless,”  said  Evelyn,  drawing  his  sword  ;  “  they 
are  before  the  house.  If  they  mean  us  harm,  little  dependence 
must  we  place  on  the  mission  of  the  poor  harper.” 

The  dragoons  were  heard  hastly  dismounting. 

u  On  this  alone  I  depend,”  said  M’Donnell,  stooping  to  the 
hearth.  “  Your  sword,  old  man !”  he  added,  as  he  took  the 
weapon  from  the  stiffened  grasp  that  held  it. 

“  Edmund,”  said  poor  Carolan,  “  I  felt  a  sword  at  my  feet, 
Just  now.  Put  it  into  my  hand.” 

“  Let  there  be  no  swords  used,”  said  the  Protestant  clergy¬ 
man,  “  and  we  shall  come  to  no  harm.  I  hold  protection  for 
all.  I  will  stand  at  the  door,  and  first  meet  them.  Throw 
down  your  blades,  young  men,  and  let  peace  be  amongst  you.” 

**  Throw  it  from  your  hand,  Edmund  M’Donnell,”  repeated 
the  old  priest. 

“  Gentlemen,”  answered  Edmund,  with  a  return  of  one  of  his 
grim  smiles,  “  I  stand  upon  my  father’s  hearth,  under  my  father’s 
roof-tree — lie  at  my  feet — his  daughter  by  the  hand.  Here  will 
I  fall,  or  revenge  him,  and  save  her.”  And  his  eyes  fixed  like 
those  of  a  crouching  panther  on  the  doorway. 

Little  time  had  he  to  watch  or  wait.  Kirke  was  immedi- 
atley  heard  saying,  outside,  as  he  used  the  terms  of  cruel  mockery 


360 


IHE  BOYNE  WATER. 


we  have  before  heard  him  use,  and  which  were  familiar  to 
him. 

“  Aha  !  now  do  I  hear  you  bleat,  indeed,  my  lambs.  Knew  I  not 
you  were  here  ?  Corporal,  post  half  the  men  at  the  back  of  the 
house — the  rest,  enter  with  me  ;  we  shall  want  none  at  the 
front.  And  harkye,  cut  me  down  two  or  three  of  my  lambs 
from  those  trees,  to  make  room,  you  know.  Sergeant,  forward.” 

The  sergeant,  obeying  orders,  stepped  over  the  threshold, 
Kirke  close  behind  him,  surrounded  by  his  dragoons.  In  another 
instant  Edmund's  highland  blade  was  through  the  sergeant's 
heart.  In  another,  drawing  it  back,  as  the  man  fell,  he  had 
bounded  to  the  hearth  again,  seized  his  sister’s  hand,  au*d  riveted 
his  glance  on  the  door,  as  if  nothing  had  occurred. 

Kirke  jumped  far  from  the  door,  and,  with  oaths  and  blas¬ 
phemies,  was  heard  to  urge  on  his  men  to  burst,  in  a  body,  into 
the  house.  The  shadows  of  several  came  before  them,  over  the 
floor  ;  When  the  Protestant  clergyman,  anxious  to  prevent 
more  bloodshed,  stept  boldly  upon  the  threshold,  and  addressing 
Kirke,  said — 

“  Here,  sir,  are  no  subjects  for  violence  or  cruelty.  I  am  a 
minister  of  the  Established  Church.  At  my  back  is  an  officer 
in  King  William’s  service  ;  and  my  other  companions  are,  by 
these  documents,”  showing  them.  “  protected  from  all  aggres¬ 
sion.  In  the  name  of  Gfod  and  of  the  King,  retire,  or  give  your 
pledge  to  approach  peaceably.” 

This  stopped  the  dragoons  for  a  moment.  Kirke,  taking 
the  protections  from  the  outstretched  hands  of  the  clergyman, 
glanced  over  them  ;  but  immediately  said,  as  he  regained  his 
self-possession — 

“  Not  worth  a  straw  to  my  lambs.  Protections  to  submitted 
and  disarmed  rebels,  these.  Here  I  have  to  deal  with  sturdy 
ones,  who  meet  King  William’s  soldiers  with  arms  in  their 
hands,  and  have  already  taken  the  life  of  a  loyal  subject.  So 
come  out,  old  gentleman,  if  you  are  what  you  say.  Let  +he 
officer  you  speak  of  also  range  himself  on  the  side  he  ought  to 
take  ;  or  both  abide  the  consequences.  Forward,  soldiers,  if 
they  do  not  instantly  appear.  Forward,  pell-mell.  Hah  !” — 
interrupting  himself,  as  he  caught,  through  the  door,  a  glimpse 
of  Eva — “  I  see  within  a  fairer  advocate,  and  one  that  may 
have  more  persuasion.  Let  the  lady  step  out,  and  entreat  us 
for  her  friends.” 

Poor  Eva  shrank  back,  Edmund  again  bounded  towards  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


361 


door,  while  Evelyn  grasped  closer  the  now  trembling  hand  he 
held — all  in  recollection  of  the  well-known  story  that  stamps 
upon  the  character  of  Kirke  its  deepest  infamy,  and  to  which 
his  present  words  seemed  the  beginning  of  an  intended  parallel ; 
the  story  that  every  historian,  Hume  included,  holds  up  to  the 
curses  of  posterity  ;  that  a  poet  has  also  “curst  in  everlasting 
verse  the  reverse  pendant  to  the  story  rehearsed  in  history,  and 
by  the  muse,  of  another  captain  under  similar  circumstances — of 
the  Roman  Scipio,  on  the  field  of  New  Carthage. 

To  the  door  M’Donnell  again  sprang.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
was  about  to  break  through  all  opposers,  and  all  prudent  recol 
lections  too,  for  one  good  thrust  at  Kirke.  But  the  two  clergy¬ 
men  and  Carolan  blocked  up  his  way,  and  together  exhorted  him 
to  refrain.  While  Evelyn,  and  even  his  sister,  also  besought 
him  to  proceed  to  no  further  violence,  until  it  should  be  pro¬ 
voked  by  violence. 

During  the  debate,  Evelyn’s  eye  caught  a  strange  vision. 
Over  the  doorway,  visible  to  any  who,  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room  might  front  it,  but  disguised  by  a  remnant  of  thatch 
from  all  without,  the  figure  of  a  man  stealthily  crept,  winding 
itself  like  an  eel  through  an  orifice  in  the  roof,  until  he  had  got 
astride  on  a  rafter.  Across  the  rafter  he  immediately  flung, 
with  great  adroitness,  a  rope  having  a  noose  at  one  end.  This 
done,  he  looked  downward,  rubbed  his  hands,  as  if  satisfied  so 
far,  and  pleasantly  reckoning  on  the  result.  Then  he  faced 
Evelyn,  who,  at  a  glance,  knew  the  Whisperer.  And  the  recog¬ 
nition  was  mutual.  Rory,  his  face  wearing  its  usual  simper, 
immediately  nodded  and  smirked  at  him  ;  made  a  gentle  sign  of 
caution  with  his  hands  ;  and  patting  the  rope,  and  pointing- 
downward,  again  composed  hinself  to  attend  to  the  business  of 
his  situation. 

“  Will  she  not  out  ?”  Kirke  was  once  more  heard  to  exclaim 
abroad.  “  Then  must  we  in.  What  means  this  silly  tumult  at 
the  door  ?  Do  my  lambs  butt  at  each  other  ?  Forward  1” 

A  clamor  arose  among  Kirke’s  dragoons,  but  it  did  not 
sound  like  the  cry  of  attack.  Shouts  followed,  which  were  not 
theirs,  although  they  strove  to  echo  them.  They  received  and 
returned  a  volley,  and  then  pressed,  rather  in  disorder  than  in 
enterprise,  against  the  doorway,  some,  who  were  first,  stumbling 
backward  into  the  room.  At  the  same  moment  another  scuffle 
was  heard  at  the  back  of  the  house  ;  while  upon  the  dragoons 
who  entered  half  a  dozen  of  Rapparees  instantly  jumped  from 

10 


362 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  open  roof,  led  by  Evelyn's  old  guardian  of  the  donkey,  and 
seconded  by  Con  M’Donnell,  whose  cries  of  onslaught  and  con¬ 
tortions  of  feature  were  deafening*  and  hideous. 

Eva  shrank  to  a  corner  with  her  reverend  guardian  ;  Evelyn, 
Carolan,  and  the  Protestant  clergyman  still  tried  to  restrain 
Edmund.  The  dragoons  were  cut  down  or  shot,  as  those  from 
abroad  continued  to  press  them  into  the  ruined  house.  At  last 
Kirke  himself  was  forced  upon  the  threshold,  and,  with  out¬ 
stretched  arms  and  hands,  endeavored  to  avoid  the  doom  of  the 
men  who  had  preceded  him.  The  eye  of  the  boy-captain,  or  as 
he  was  now  called,  Yamen-ac-knuck,  fixed  on  him,  and,  instantly 
springing  forward — 

“  Take  him  alive  !”  he  cried.  Two  other  Rapparees  seized, 
along  with  Yamen,  Kirke’s  arm  and  shoulders,  and  tugged  to 
get  him  in.  At  this  juncture  commenced  the  operations  of  the 
Whisperer. 

Hastily  rubbing  his  hands,  and  smacking  his  lips,  he  gave  one 
or  two  preparative  glances  downward,  and  while  Kirke  yet 
remained  fixed  in  the  doorway,  gently  lowered  his  noose  ;  coaxed 
it  a  little  round  its  object ;  at  last  gave  it  a  sudden  and  knowing 
chuck.  And  to  the  surprise  of  all  parties,  Kirke’s  head  as 
suddenly  turned  aside,  his  neck  stretched,  and  his  feet  began  to 
miss  the  ground. 

“Mille  milloone  mullah  /”*  said  Rory.  "  I  have  him  in  the 
very  little  bite  of  a  sneem-a-skibbeahlf  he  was  so  fond  of  all  his 
life,  for  others.  Captain  Yamen,  a-chorra-ma-chree,  jest  lend 
him  a  hand — you  know  it’s  nothin’  but  the  kindness  you  wanted 
to  keep  him  for.  You,  Bryan,  a-vich,  take  this  end  o’  the 
sthring.  An’  you,  too,  Murthock,  steady  the  darlin’,  a  little — 
there.  Asy,  now — fair  an’  asy  goes  far  in  the  day.  Musha, 
what  bolgh\  is  on  you,  Gineral  Kirke,  a-hager  ?  Throth,  I 
don’t  think  he  loves  or  likes  that  lift,  by  the  faces  he  makes — 
thry  it  agin,  anyhow.  Asy,  asy — ” 

“  Buck,  ruch  /”§  interrupted  some  of  their  friends’  voices 
from  the  back  of  the  house  ;  “  here  comes  all  the  Sassenachs  to 
see  what’s  keepin’  him.  A  power  o’  them — all  that  went  by 
to-day — ruch ,  ruch  /”  and  the  overmastering  shouts  of  a  great 
'body  of  soldiers,  mixed  with  the  trampling  of  their  horses,  and 
the  blasts  of  their  trumpets,  sounded  very  near  the  house. 


*  A  thousand  million  of  praises. 
{  What’s  the  matter. 


Hangman’s  knot. 
Run,  run. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


363 


In  the  pause  of  consternation  which  this  produced  on  those 
of  the  Rapparees  who  were  in  the  ruined  dwelling,  the  few 
remaining  dragoons  abroad  rallied.  Answering  the  cheers  of 
their  approaching  friends,  they  burst  through  the  doorway,  cut 
down  their  general,  and  received  him,  in  convulsions,  in  their 
arms. 

Eva’s  shriek  arose,  and  M’Donnell  grew  more  frantic  than 
ever,  in  his  efforts  to  free  himself  from  the  well-meant  violence 
of  his  friends. 

As  the  retreating  Rapparees  struggled  on  the  floor  with  the 
dragoons,  as  their  shots  flew  round,  and  their  cries  and  execra¬ 
tions  mingled  with  the  still  approaching  uproar  from  abroad — 
his  voice,  louder  than  every  other  sound,  was  heard  to  exclaim  : 

“Evelyn — traitor — Sassenach  —  let  me  go!  Men  —  Irish¬ 
men — friends — assist  me  !  He  holds  me,  to  betray  me  to  them  ! 
Strike,  if  he  will  not  free  me  !” 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken,  than  the  cat-eye  of  the  young 
captain,  the  last  to  retreat,  fastened  on  Evelyn  with  a  startled 
recognition.  He  presented  his  pistol,  and  snapped  it  at  his 
head  ;  it  missed  fire.  He  seized  it  by  the  muzzle,  and  sank  the 
lock  in  Evelyn’s  forehead,  who  instantly  went  down. 

All  that  followed  of  the  scene  was  confused  to  Evelyn.  But 
ere  the  young  bravo,  or  some  one  for  him,  could  repeat  a  threat¬ 
ened  blow,  the  scream  of  another  female  joined  that  of  Eva,  and 
a  woman’s  figure  swam  before  his  eyes,  and  fell  on  him.  Then 
came  a  burst  of  shouting,  roaring,  firing,  and  sword-clashing 
— a  rush  into  the  house — a  trampling  upon  him — and  then 
insensibility. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

When  Evelyn  regained  his  senses,  the  first  glance  around  told 
him  that  he  was  still  beneath  part  of  the  roof  of  the  ruined 
house  ;  that  it  was  night  ;  and  that  some  feeble  taper  just  served 
to  break  the  thick  darkness.  At  another  glance,  he  saw  himself 
surrounded  by  piles  of  stones  and  thatch,  rising  on  every  side,  so 
high  as  to  shut  him  out  from  view  of  the  rest  of  the  apartment , 
He  stirred,  and  then  became  sensible  that  a  hand  held  his,  that  a 


364 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


woman’s  eyes  watched  him,  while  his  head  was  pillowed  on  her 
lap.  But  she  was  silent  as  all  else  around  her.  The  full  sense 
of  his  situation  crowded  upon  Evelyn  ;  though  while  the  dreary 
stillness  smote  his  heart,  he  snatched  at  the  hope  that  it  was 
Eva  who  watched  him.  For,  added  to  the  confused  state  of  his 
thoughts,  his  nearness  to  the  down-turned  face,  and  the  imperfect 
light,  did  not  allow  him  at  once  to  become  certain. 

So,  still  holding  the  hand  that  gently  grasped  his,  he  strove 
to  rise.  A  sudden  swimming  of  dais  head  baffled  the  effort  and 
he  sank  down  again. 

“Sleep,  sleep,  a-chorra-ma-chree,”  said  a  soft  voice,  some¬ 
what  familiar  to  him,  though  not  the  one  he  had  hoped  to  hear. 
“  The  pain  and  the  wakeness  is  on  you  yet — sleep,  sleep.” 

Yielding  a  moment  to  the  overpowering  faintness,  it  soon 
passed  away.  Evelyn  was  now  more  successful  in  his  effort  to  sit 
up,  and  fix  his  eyes  on  the  girl’s  face,  which  he  slowly  recognized 
to  be  that  of  Moya  Laherty — his  champion  and  savior  during 
the  attack  on  his  own  house. 

“  An  how  is  it  wid  you  now,  a-hager  ?”  questioned  his  young 
and  not  unattractive  companion,  while  surprise  kept  Evelyn  mute. 

“  My  poor  girl  !”  he  said,  as  he  gratefully  pressed  her  hand, 
“is  it  you  who  are  my  nurse,  and,  I  suppose,  a  second  time  my 
preserver  ?” 

Tears  started  into  her  eyes,  as,  blushing,  and  casting  them 
down,  she  replied — 

“  Avoch,  don’t,  don’t  say  them  kind  words  to  me.  They  sadden 
the  heart  within  me,  whin  they’d  fitther  make  it  glad.  Sure  it’s 
poor  Moya,  hersef,  is  here,  an’  a  good  warrant  she  had.  Why 
for  no  whin  the  word  that  came  to  our  men,  an’  I  wid  my  mam¬ 
my  among  ’em,  tould  me  you  war  here  in  throuble  !” 

“  Ah  !  I  seem  to  remember  now  having  seen  a  woman — you, 
I  suppose — rush  between  me  and  some  fellow  whose  hand  was 
raised  over  me  when  I  fell  ?” 

“It’s  the  thruth  you  did,  I’m  thinking.” 

'  And,  my  God  1”  continued  Evelyn,  gazing  at  her  in  alarm 
and  regret,  “  this — this  wound  on  your  breast  must  have  been 
received  in  your  struggle  to  save  me  ?” 

“What  wound,  a-gra?  it’s  nothin’  at  all.  Only  the  blood 
that  cum  from  your  own  poor  head,  more  to  talk  of  nor  any  thing 
that  ’ud  happen  to  twenty  o’  my  likes.”  She  said  this  in  some 
confusion,  as  she  tried  to  draw  the  coarse  drapery  closer  ove/ 
her  bosom. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


S65 


“  Merciful  heaven  !”  cried  Evelyn,  as  in  her  nervousness  the 
covering  fell,  and  exposed  a  gash  on  the  poor  girl’s  left  breast. 

“  Why  would  you  deceive  me  ?  What  a  cut  is  there,  poor 
Moya  !” 

“  Bother  on  it  1”  said  Moya,  roughly  pulling  up  the  cover¬ 
ing,  and  reapplying  some  herb-dressings  that  had  also  fallen  off. 
“  Where  ’ud  it  be  goin’  wid  itsef,  for  to  vex  me  this  way  ? 
It’s  nothin’  I  tell  you  agin,  Sassenach,  a-chorra  ;  or” — tears 
once  more  gushing.  “  Sure  if  it  war,  what  is  it  only  a  dhrop  o' 
the  blood  spilt  for  you,  that  ’ud  come,  out-an-out,  to  save  one 
dhrop  o’  yours  ?  I’m  glad  it’s  next  the  heart,  anyhow,”  she 
added,  striving  to  laugh  off  her  emotion,  but  with  a  glance, 
perhaps  involuntary,  that  Evelyn  could  not  mistake. 

It  told  him  that  the  sentiments  entertained  towards  him  by 
Moya  were  such  as,  for  many  reasons,  he  could  not  in  manliness 
or  delicacy  encourage.  He  therefore  resolved  to  shun,  as  much 
as  possible,  all  personal  topics  between  them.  And  the  subjects 
which  really  engrossed  his  mind,  fully  returning  after  this  inter¬ 
ruption,  he  was  about  to  thank  her,  in  a  formal  strain,  for  her 
disinterested  exertions  in  his  behalf,  and  then  pass  to  other 
inquiries,  when  Moya  resumed — 

“  An’  how  is  the  head  that’s  on  you,  now,  Sassenach  ?” 

“  Oh,  I  scarce  feel  any  inconvenience  from  the  wound  !” 
putting  up  his  hand.  In  some  surprise,  he  found  it  carefully 
bandaged.  He  could  not  avoid  adding — “  For  this,  too,  I  am 
indebted  to  you,  Moya.” 

“  Not  the  laste  in  the  world.  Only  whin  I  watched  my  time, 
an’  struv  to  lift  you  over  the  stones  an’  rubbish,  out  o’  their 
sight,  sure  when  all  was  quiet  agin,  I  jest  crept  out,  an’  pult  the 
little  heribs  that  my  mammy  often  showed  me  in  the  fields  an’  by 
the  wather’s  brink,  an’  tould  me  war  good  for  a  cut  or  a  bruise. 
And  then,  I  come  back,  an’  washed  off  the  blood  wid  the 
dhrop  o’  liquor  I  had  about  me,  an’  tied  em’  on  ; — you — God 
look  down  on  you  I — not  mindin’  me  a  bit  all  the  while.  Oh, 
many’s  the  salt  tear  I  cried  from  the  heart,  out,  thinkin’  you’d 
never  mind  me,  nor  any  thing  else  in  the  world,  wide  1” 

Now  conveying  his  thanks,  as  he  intended,  in  a  manner  calcu¬ 
lated,  without  directly  shocking  or  offending  the  girl,  to  impress 
her  with  the  uninterested  state  of  his  feelings  towards  her,  Eve¬ 
lyn,  with  some  embarrassment,  changed  the  subject.  “  You  know, 
Moya,  I  accompanied  hither  some  very  dear  friends  ;  can  you 
tell  me  wha*  has  become  of  them  ?”  He  asked  this  question  in  a 


366 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


dreadful  misgiving,  glancing  around,  though  his  view  of  the  whola 
apartment  was  interrupted. 

“  There  was  two  ould  men,  one  a  Sassenach  clargy,  an’  the 
other  a  raal  clargy,  an’  a  young  man  an’ — an’  the — his  sisther, 
I’m  thinkin’ ,  all  in  black,  poor  crature  ?”  demanded  Moya,  in 
some  hesitation. 

Evelyn  answered  that  she  had  truly  described  the  parties. 

‘‘Then,”  added  Moya,  “put  up  the  Keenthecaun  for  ’em,  if 
they  war  any  friends  o’  yours.” 

“  My  God  ! — how — what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“  In  regard  o’  the  clargy,  myself  know  nothing.  But,  my 
eyes  desaived  me,  when  they  opened,  afther  a  time,  by  the  side  o’ 
you,  if  they  didn’t  see  the  young  man  stuck  through  the  heart,  an’ 
his  father’s  daughther  dragged  off  by  the  Sassenach  gineral.” 

He  was  horror-struck,  although  he  had  expected,  indeed,  some 
tale  of  the  kind.  After  a  moment  he  started  up. 

“  Where  ’ud  you  be  for  goin’,  now,  a-cushla,  an’  the  legs  o’ 
your  body  not  able  to  carry  you  ?” 

“  Take  the  brand,  Moya,  and  follow  me,”  he  cried,  with  a  fierce¬ 
ness  that  startled  her,  and  admitted  of  no  opposition.  Without 
another  word,  but  looks  of  gloom,  she  obeyed.  They  scrambled 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  Evelyn  peered  eagerly  around. 

“  He  is  not  here.  Edmund  M’Donnell  is  not  here !”  he  cried. 

Indeed,  except  those  of  the  dragoons,  now  stript  and  rifled, 
no  dead  bodies  appeared,  although  Evelyn  recollected  to  have 
seen  many  Rapparees  fall.  Even  the  corpse  of  old  M’Donnell 
had  been  removed  from  the  hearth. 

“You  must  mistake,  good  girl,”  he  resumed.  “My  friend 
cannot  have  fallen  here.  And,  oh  !  God  grant  you  may  be 
mistaken  in  the  rest  also.” 

“  God  grant,  Sassenach,  dear.  But  sure  little  good  is  on  the 
eyes  o’  me — an’  it’s  little  is  on  ’em  any  way,  for  the  matther  o’ 
tihat.”  This  she  said  with  the  conscious  glance  of  acknowledged 
beauty.  “  Bud  the  bat  himself,  the  baste,  has  worser  in  his  head 
within,  if  they  could  make  a  fool  o’  me  that-a-way,  I’m  thinkin’ 
wake  as  I  war.” 

Evelyn  again  reflected  for  a  moment. 

“  Before  I  fell,  Moya,  a  numerous  re-enforcement  came  to  the 
dragoons,  and  the  Rapparees  were  defeated,  and  flying.  Was 
it  not  so  ?” 

“Jest  the  very  turn  it  took,”  said  Moya. 

“  And  how,  then,  the  soldiers  remaining  viotors  to  the  last, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


367 


and  last  on  the  ground — how  can  it  have  happened  that  the 
dead  bodies  of  your  friends  are  alone  removed,  an7  that  those  of 
the  dragoons  appear  plundered  and  neglected  ?” 

“  Avoch,  an’  how  do  I  know  ?”  said  the  girl,  pettishly. 

“It  is  very  strange,”  Evelyn  went  on  rapidly,  hoping,  from 
all  these  appearances,  that,  in  her  faintness  and  confusion,  she 
had  really  been  mistaken  as  to  the  distressing  events  she  said 
Bhe  had  witnessed. 

“  Only,”  resumed  Moya,  “  whin  I  went  a  good  way,  hj  the 
brook  an’  the  hill-side,  to  gether  the  green  heribs,  maybe  the 
bc^rs  cum  back,  an’  I  out  o’  the  house,  an’  lifted  their  dead,  to 
give  ’em  Christhen  berrin,  and  put  a  hand  to  the  red-troopers  at 
that  same  time.  Sure  it’s  a  way  they  have.” 

This  hint  was  destruction  to  Evelyn’s  previous  hopes.  The 
only  contradiction  to  which  he  clung  seemed  accounted  for ;  he 
could  no  longer  doubt  the  correctness  of  Moya’s  story.  Eva, 
then,  had  indeed  fallen  into  Kirke’s  hands  !  As  Evelyn  once 
more  brought  to  mind  the  anecdote  before  alluded  to,  and  also 
remembered  Kirke’s  approach  to  a  conference  with  Eva  in  the 
early  part  of  the  fray,  he  clenched  his  hands  and  teeth,  stamped, 
and  cried  out — 

“  Accursed  villain  !  Come,  girl,  let  us  leave  this  glen.” 

“  An’  where  to  go  ?”  asked  Moya,  in  a  commiserating  and  en¬ 
treating  voice,  as  she  watched  the  emotions  of  Evelyn.  “  Where 
to  go,  at  this  dead  o’  the  night  ?” 

“On  to  the  village  first.” 

“  Och,  Sassenach,  honey,  don’t  go  to  stir  a  step,  if  you  love 
the  dear  life,  or  care  for  poor  Moya.  Every  nook  of  the  hills  on 
our  road  hides  a  Rapparee,  an’  all  o’  them  your  book-sworn 
foes.  An’  the  village  is  full  o’  your  own  red-coats.” 

“  Is  it  ?  That’s  all  I  wish.  Come.” 

“  But  wait  a  deechy  bit,  a-chorra-ma-chree  !  It’s  the  red-coats  is 
in  it,  sure  enough,  bud  your  inemies,  as  mooch  as  the  Rapparees. 
“  Didn’t  I  hear  the  gineral,  while  the  colleen  was  screechin’  in 
his  hands,  the  thief-o’-the-world.” 

“  Accursed  monster  !  Come,  girl,  or  stay  behind  me  I” 
Evelyn  burst  out,  almost  with  a  shriek. 

“  Is  that  how  it  is  now  ?  Musha,  God  forgi’  you,  Sassenach 
o’  the  hard  heart !  Will  you  lave  poor  Mova  alone  in  this  black 
eK  an’  the  night  in  it,  when  she  has  nowhere  to  turn  her  face  ; 
when  it’s  her  life’s-worth  to  face  among  her  own  agin  afther  her 
fitayin’  wid  you  ;  afther  them  seem’  her  whin  she  put  her  body 


368 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


betuxt  them  an*  you,  an — ?  Bud  I’ll  say  little  of  it.  Only  this 
I’ll  say,  what  I  was  sayin’  afore.  Go  not  to  the  village,  where 
your  own  sodgers  are  waitin’  to  be  the  ruin  o’  you.  I  hard  their 
gineral,  I  tell  you  agin,  biddin’  ’em  look  for  you  well,  and  tie  you 
behind  a  throoper’s  saddle,  an’  take  good  care  o’  you  till  the 
march  was  over.  Now,  you  may  jest  throw  away  your  own  life, 
that  she  gave  up  all  to  save,  an’  lave  her  in  thi?  wild  glin  to 
lose  her  own  too.  Never  ’ill  she  go  a  foot  wid  you  over  the 
road  that’s  to  lade  you  to  your  death,  let  her  own  loock  be  what¬ 
ever  the  morn  in’  ’ill  briug  wid  it.” 

Evelyn,  struck,  if  not  touched,  with  the  apparent  devotion  and 
disinterestedness  of  the  poor  wandering  girl,  hastened  to  assure 
her  that  it  was  impossible  for  him,  by  act  or  word,  to  show  a 
forgetfulness  of  her  kind  services.  Then  he  was  about  to  give 
reasons  why  their  reception  at  the  village  should  not  be  as  bad 
as  she  apprehended,  when  Moya  interrupted  him. 

“  Ochown!  I  want  no  talk  like  that  to  pay  me  for  what  I 
done,  with  a  good  heart.  But,  Sassenach,  Sassenach,  dear,  I 
gi’  you  the  warnin’,  an’  take  it.  The  world  wide  is  agin  us 
two,  this  black  night.  Let  us  turn  from  ’em  all.  You  have  no 
house  or  home,  an’  I  have  no  house  or  home  ;  kith  or  kin,  friend 
or  gossip,  we  have  none,  or  else  they  stand  up  agin  us.  Och  ! 
sure  we’re  the  only  friends  of  one  another.  So,  till  betther 
times  come  round — till  you  can  get  a  house  agin,  an’  sit  down 
in  pace  an’  quiet,  an’  till  I — but  little’s  the  matther  about 
Moya.  Only  turn  wid  her,  till  you  can  be  rightified,  an’  made 
safe  an’  sure.  Turn  your  feet,  wid  hers,  from  the  black  north, 
an’  from  all  its  roads  and  towns,  into  the  green  country.  I 
know  a  lonesome  place,  and  a  weeny,  waste  cabin  in  it  ;  the 
grass  about  it  is  as  green  as  a  May  mornin’,  an’  the  little 
sthrame  as  clear  as  your  own  blue  eyes,  an’  no  livin’  thing  near, 
bud  all  as  quiet  as  the  summer  sky.  When  we  sit  down  there, 
Moya  ’ill  have  a  cow  for  you,  to  gi’  you  milk,  for  she  has  the 
goold  to  buy  it ;  an’  a  cock  to  crow  for  you,  at  break  o’  day, 
and  the  wolf-dog  to  watch  while  you’re  sleepin’  ;  an’  she’ll  dig 
for  you,  an’  lay  good  food  forenent  you,  an’  be  your  sarvent  all 
day  long.  Come  wid  her,  a-cuishla-machree,  that  she  may  know 
well  you  are  safe  from  the  rievin’  world — that  she  may  thry  to 
be  to  you  the  comforts  now  lost  to  you.  Ochown  !  come  wid 
her,  to  give  her  heart  pace  1” 

Here  the  poor  Rapparee  girl,  with  a  quick,  impulsive  gesture, 
laid  her  weeping  face  upon  his  shoulder. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


369 


“  No,  Moya,”  he  replied,  gently,  “  with  the  sheerest  thanks, 
and  with  friendship  for  your  kindness  and  friendship,  this  cannot 
be.  I  am  encompassed  with  doubts,  which  I  must,  one  way  or 
another,  clear  up.  I  am  torn  with  fears,  which  I  must,  one  way 
or  another,  make  certain.  And  my  first  necessary  step  is  to 
follow  the  soldiers  who  were  here  to-day  ;  therefore,  let  us  to 
the  village.  As  to  your  fears  for  me  when  I  get  there,  depend 
on  it  I  shall  meet  as  many  friends  as  foes.  Friends  able  and 
willing  to  protect  me ;  and  friends  to  protect  you,  too,  whose 
safety  shall  be  my  immediate  care.  Were  I  satisfied,  Moya,” 
he  added,  moved  by  the  contrast  between  her  devotion,  and  his 
otherwise  desolate  condition — “in  one  way  satisfied — did  I 
know  that  I  stand  as  blasted  and  wretched  as  I  fear  I  do — 
then  might  you  lead  me  where  you  pleased.  Then,  my  poor 
girl,  I  would  not  care  what  lonely  and  savage  spot  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  sufficed  to  hide  me.”  Hot  tears  of  anguish  dropped, 
as  he  spoke,  upon  the  girl’s  head,  which,  fearful  of  hurting  her, 
he  had  allowed  to  remain  upon  his  shoulder. 

“  Our  only  true  danger,”  he  resumed,  “  is  from  the  Rapparees 
on  the  road — but  that  we  must  dare.  Cheer  up,  Moya ;  lean 
on  me,  and  let  us  pursue  our  way.” 

She  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand  in  a  silence  that  seemed 
like  sullenness,  mixed  with  bitter  grief,  and,  perhaps,  womanly 
mortification.  As  he  moved  a  step  she  sobbed  loudly,  and 
resisted  a  little.  But  after  a  struggle,  her  buoyant  nature 
enabled  her  to  rally,  to  dry  her  tears,  to  assume  a  careless, 
laughing  air,  and  at  last  to  say  : 

“  Well,  Sassenach,  I  will  jest  go  wid  you,  to  show  you  the 
road — I  won’t  refuse  the  last  good  turn,  anyhow.”  And  with 
these  words  they  walked  into  the  dark  glen,  Moya  humming  a 
merry  t-une. 

Evelyn,  alarmed,  he  knew  not  why,  at  this  sudden  change  in 
the  girl’s  manner,  observed  : 

“  If  you  really  fear  we  may  be  surprised  by  your  angry 
friends,  Moya,  such  loud  singing  is  rather  imprudent  on  your  part.” 

“  Divil  a  taste,  Sassenach,”  replied  Moya,  lightly.  “  When 
the  merry  fit  comes  on  a  body,  who  can  help  it  ?”  And  she 
sang,  at  the  top  of  her  voice  : 

“  ‘  Oh !  my  Moya’s  dliressed  so  fine  an’  gay, 

She  wears  an  Irish  mantle  ; 

Wid  frenge  about  the  petticoat, 

That  never  knew  shame  or  skhandia’ 

10* 


370 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  That’s  me.  It’s  a  scrap  of  a  good  song,  Terry  O’Regan, 
the  handsomest  young  piper  on  Ireland’s  ground,  made  for  me. 
But  it  wouldn’t  do — I  turned  him  off.  An’  then  he  made 
another  dhass  or  two,  when  he  thought  red  Murraugh  was  my 
likin’.  This  is  a  lilt  of  it : 

“  *  May  you  never  see  the  harvest,  nor  hear  the  young  cuckoo, 

For  you  robbed  me  of  my  darlin’,  Murraugh,  Murraugh  Rue.’  ” 

The  last  air  she  began  to  sing  was  of  the  first  order  of  Irish 
musical  pathos.  Ere  poor  Moya  could  get  through  with  it,  her 
bosom  became  again  filled,  in  accordance  to  the  tune,  with  the 
vainly-checked  sorrow  that  was  its  real  passion  for  the  moment. 
Her  voice  trembled  ;  and,  bursting  into  tears,  she  interrupted 
herself  with — 

“  Och  !  what  ’ud  I  be  thinking  of,  at-all-at-all !” 

Evelyn  let  the  fit  work  on,  as  Moya,  disengaging  her  arm, 
walked  forward  some  distance  ;  and,  after  a  short  pause,  her 
voice  was  again  heard  singing  to  another  pathetic  air  these  words  : 

“  He’s  my  love,  an’  lie’s  my  likin’,  bud  he  cares  not  for  me  ; 

I’d  lay  down  life  for  Paudeen,  so  liis  love  he’d  let  me  be. 

But  while  I’d  die  for  Paudeen,  of  me  no  thought  he  has  ; 

Och !  my  heart — my  heart,  it’s  breakin’,  wid  lovin’  Paudeen  Dhass  !* 

I’d  beg  the  wide  world  over,  to  bring  him  comfort  home  ; 

But  he’d  never  think  about  me,  wherever  I  did  roam. 

An’  war  I  in  my  could  grave,  my  could  grave  he  would  pass, 

Widojt  a  look  or  token  from  my  own  Paudeen  Dhass  !” 

As  Moya  finished  the  last  verse,  two  or  three  voices  chal 
longed  them  at  some  distance.  Ever  since  they  left  the  ruined 
house,  Evelyn  had  been  apprehending  that,  through  vindictive¬ 
ness  at  his  slight,  or  else  mere  whim  and  inconsistency,  it  was  the 
girl’s  intention  to  attract,  by  her  loud  singiug,  some  couching 
body  of  Rapparees,  and  betray  him  into  their  hands.  As  the 
voices  now  echoed  down  the  glen,  his  former  suspicion  amounted 
to  certainty,  and  stopping  full  before  Moya,  he  asked — 

“  Girl  !  will  you  destroy  me,  after  all  ?” 

“  Och  1  God  forgi’  you  agin,  I  say,”  she  answered  ;  “  an’  is 
it  that  you’re  thinkin’  of  in  regard  o’  the  little  lightness  o’  the 
heart — an"  maybe  it’s  a  sorrowful  lightness,  after  all — that  jest 


*  Handsome  Patrick. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  371 

coin  over  me  ?  I  know  it’s  the  poor  boys  you’d  be  afeard  of ; 
but  listen  well  to  their  voices.” 

The  challenge  was  repeated,  and  Evelyn,  indeed,  recognized 
the  broad  north  country  tone  that  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
among  his  own  volunteer  corps.  As  the  party  advanced,  he 
promptly  answered  them.  When  challenged  and  challengers 
met,  he  further  recognized  an  old  brother  officer  in  command  of 
it  ;  his  previous  surmise  that  the  village  of  Cushindoll  must 
have  been  garrisoned  by  a  handful  of  native  troops,  rather  than 
by  any  portion  of  Kirke’s  regular  armies,  thus  proving  true. 

After  a  cordial  greeting  on  both  sides,  he  briefly  informed  the 
officer  that  his  present  situation  was  one  of  extreme  anxiety, 
calling  on  him  to  push  southward,  after  Kirke’s  division,  as  soon 
as  possible  ;  and  he  therefore  required  to  be  accommodated 
with  a  horse  and  attendant.  His  old  acquaintance  replied  that 
he  should  have  both,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  early  the  next 
morning,  when  the  principal  part  of  their  detachment,  now  in 
Cushindoll,  should  march,  taking  the  same  route  with  Kirke, 
for  their  headquarters,  at  Schomberg’s  camp,  near  Loughbrick- 
land. 

u  And  why  not  to-night — now  ?”  asked  Evelyn,  in  some  mis¬ 
giving. 

“  The  answer  is  one  that  I  am  distressed  to  render.  Gen¬ 
eral  Kirke,  who  assumes,  at  his  pleasure,  the  command  and  dis¬ 
posal  of  our  native  troops,  left  express  orders  with  me,  in  his 
hasty  march  through  the  village,  this  evening,  to  make  you  a 
prisoner,  should  you  happen  to  come  in  my  way.  I  need  not 
add,  however,  that  your  captivity  shall  be  nominal,  for  this 
night.  Early  to-morrow  we  shall  ride  forward,  together,  and  see 
an  end  to  the  matter,  whatever  it  is.” 

There  was  no  resource.  Evelyn,  boiling  with  rage,  impa¬ 
tience,  and  terrible  apprehensions,  saw  himself  obliged  to  sub¬ 
mit  to  one  night’s  restraint.  After  getting  upon  a  horse,  and 
requesting  that  Moya  might  be  accommodated  with  a  seat  be¬ 
hind  one  of  the  men,  the  whole  party  were  about  to  move  back 
to  the  village,  when  Evelyn  took  the  officer  aside. 

“  Sir,”  he  cried,  “  I  am  a  most  injured  and  most  unhappy 
man.  That  villain — that  fiend — the  cause  of  all— good  reason 
has  he  to  put  me  under  this  arrest  !  No  matter  for  the  cir¬ 
cumstances,  at  present ;  but  answer  me  one  question.  Did  you 
see  any  prisoners — or  strangers — of  either  sex,  accompanying 
him  on  his  route,  this  evening,  through  the  village  ?” 


372 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


The  officer  paused  a  moment,  and  answered  no. 

“  But  could  not  such  be  spirited  along,  without  your  obser¬ 
vation  ?  Could  there  not  be  disguises — a  horseman’s  cloak,  or 
the  like — and  there  was  no  whisper,  no  surmise  ?” 

“Iam  aware  of  none.  Nor  can  I  form  any  opinion  on  the 
secret  practices  you  suggest.  I  only  know,  that  after  Han- 
mer’s  and  Stewart’s  regiments,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  own, 
moved  back  to  this  glen,  from  the  village  where  they  had  halted 
a  moment,  in  some  apprehension  on  Kirke’s  account,  they  all 
again  returned  to  us,  in  much  haste,  and  immediately  pushed 
southward,  without  any  explanation.” 

“  Well,  ’tis  no  matter  ;  to-morrow  shall  satisfy  me.  When  we 
gain  Schomberg’s  camp,  I  entreat  your  support,  sir,  and  that  of 
the  men  here,  and,  if  possible,  that  of  our  whole  native  force, 
on  the  spot,  while  I  publicly  appeal  for  justice  against  most 
villanous  aggression.” 

His  brother  in  arms  promptly  engaged  to  render  Evelyn  all 
the  assistance  in  his  power ;  and  they  immediately  rode  on  to 
Cushindoll.  Arrived  in  their  temporary  quarters,  Evelyn  once 
more  entreated  that  poor  Moya  might  be  looked  to  for  the  night, 
and  in  the  morning  allowed  to  remain  with  the  women  of  the 
few  volunteers  who  should  stay  behind  ;  the  Enniskilleners  being 
accompanied,  wherever  they  went,  by  flocks  of  their  wives, 
daughters,  mothers,  and  sweethearts,  much  to  the  surprise  and 
scandal  of  the  more  regular  English  army.  When  he  had  re¬ 
ceived  promises  to  all  he  solicited  for  Moya,  he  sent  to  call  her 
before  him. 

She  entered,  silent  and  pensive,  with  a  mixture  of  obstinacy 
or  determination  in  her  manner. 

“  I  march  early  to-morrow  morning,  Moya,  and  wish  to  bid 
you  good-by,  before  I  retire  to  rest,  as  there  will  be  no  time 
for  adieus  in  the  bustle,  at  break  of  day.” 

“  Avoch,  we  thank  you,  Sassenach.” 

“  Be  assured,  my  good  girl,  I  can  never  forget  your  great 
services  and  kindnesses  j  and  if  it  shall  ever  be  in  my  power  to 
repay  them,  depend  on  my  gratitude.” 

“  Avoch  !”  was  Moya’s  only  answer,  as,  with  her  chin  sunk 
in  her  neck,  and  the  knuckle  of  a  finger  tapped  against  her 
under  lip,  she  twitched,  with  the  point  of  her  huge  brogue,  a 
rush  that  lay  on  the  floor.  Evelyn,  not  well  skilled  in  the  man¬ 
ifestations  of  sentiment  usual  amongst  those  of  her  caste,  felt 
hurt  at  a  manner  that  he  feared  6eemed  to  flout  his  empty 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  373 

words,  and  point  to  some  more  solid  remuneration.  Under  this 
feeling,  he  resumed  : 

“  You  know  I  atn  not  rich,  Moya  ;  you  were,  yourself,  a 
witness  of  the  temporary  ruin  that  has  come  upon  my  property. 
But  still — as,  separated  from  your  old  friends,  you  may  feel 
certain  embarrassments — I  have  this  at  your  service.” 

He  approached  and  placed  a  small  purse  in  her  passive  hand. 
She  retained  it  a  moment,  as  if  no  such  thing  had  been  in  her 
possession  ;  at  last  held  it  up,  glanced  at  it,  fixed  upon  the 
giver  a  look  in  which,  through  eyes  floating  in  tears,  an  outraged 
and  indignant  spirit  shot  forth  ;  then,  dashing  it  on  the  floor, 
and  stamping  on  it — 

“  As  the  dust  o’  the  road  I  care  for  it,  and  I  tlirate  it!”  she 
exclaimed.  “  Ochown  !  Sassenach,  little  do  you  know  the 
heart  in  poor  Moya’s  body,  within — an’  little,  I’m  afeard,  little 
kith  there’s  betwixt  your  heart  an’  her  heart,  when  you’d  kill 
her,  entirely,  this-a-way.  Bud  I’m  wrongin’  you,  maybe  ;  I’ll 
say  it  war  meant  kindly,  though  not  done  as  our  people  ’ud  do 
it.  I’ll  say  it  war — an’  so” — stooping  and  taking  up  the  purse 
— “  we  gi’  you  many  thanks,  aroon,  bud  it’s  not  wantin’  the 
present  time.” 

“  Then,  my  good  Moya,  farewell !”  said  Evelyn,  convinced 
he  had  erred  in  his  reading.  He  took  her  hand,  rough  and  red 
as  it  was,  though  small,  and  of  perfect  shape,  and  rather  chiv¬ 
alrously,  and  in  something  of  the  air  of  a  courteous  knight  of 
yore,  condescending  to  comfort,  as  far  as  honor  permitted,  the 
tears  of  a  devoted  damsel  to  whom  he  was  indifferent,  kissed  it 
earnestly. 

This  was  too  much  for  poor  Moya.  She  instantly  set  up  a 
wild  lament,  or  song  of  joy— it  might  have  been  either,  so  far 
as  Evelyn’s  startled  ears  could  tell — and  eagerly  returning,  with 
interest,  upon  the  hand  she  held,  the  kiss  he  had  vouchsafed, 
while  all  the  time  her  eyes  rained  tears,  she  broke  from  him, 
exclaiming — 

“  Grod  be  your  speed  ! — but  we  may  meet  agin.” 

Retiring  to  bed,  but  not  to  repose,  Evelyn  counted  the  hours 
till  daylight.  As  soon  as  morning  broke,  the  party  to  which 
he  was  attached  commenced  its  march.  All  day  he  urged  his 
fellow-officer  to  speed.  But  the  usual  regulations  observed  on 
the  march  did  not  permit  his  request  to  be  attended  to.  When 
they  halted  for  the  night,  Evelyn  found,  in  increased  impatience, 
that  owing  to  the  difficulties  of  the  road,  not  more  than  a  dozen 


374 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


miles,  out  of  between  thirty  and  forty  which  lay  before  them, 
had  been  accomplished.  And  he  now  perceived,  what  he  had 
at  first  omitted  to  calculate,  that,  owing  to  the  start  Kirke  had 
over  them,  he  must  not  expect  to  come  up  with  that  individual 
until  the  detachment  should  reach  Schomberg’s  camp. 

Evelyn  appealed  to  the  officer  for  permission  to  ride  forward 
aloue,  giving  his  parole  for  a  reappearance  at  the  point  of 
rendezvous  ;  but  he  was  informed,  that  against  any  such  indul¬ 
gence  Kirke  had  taken  the  precaution  of  issuing  his  commands. 
Evelyn  then  inconsiderately  threatened  to  push  on,  in  defiance 
of  every  order  ;  but  his  grave  and  prudential  companion  gave 
notice  that,  after  the  avowal  of  such  an  intent,  it  became  his 
duty,  forgetful  of  all  private  feelings,  to  look  more  attentively 
to  his  prisoner.  Accordingly  he  called  two  men  to  ride  at  each 
side  of  Evelyn,  asking  his  pardon  for  the  measure. 

Evelyn  saw  he  was  obliged  to  submit,  while  hope  must  be 
his  only  solace.  Thus  did  he  endeavor  to  check  the  impatieuce 
of  his  spirit,  until,  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  after  the 
beginning  of  their  march,  the  party  came  in  sight  of  Schomberg’s 
pemporary  camp. 

It  was  pitched  a  little  to  the  north  of  the  village  of  Lough- 
brickland,  partly  on  a  plain,  divided  by  a  very  bad  road,  partly 
on  gentle  heights  to  the  left ;  a  small  lough  of  water  near  at 
hand.  Almost  all  the  troops,  including  the  main  body  of  the 
Enniskilleners,  were  under  arms,  in  line,  and  in  the  act  of  being 
reviewed,  as  the  little  detachment  came  up.  It  was  a  beautiful 
August  evening,  and  it  lit  up  a  beautiful,  a  fine,  and,  to  Evelyn, 
a  novel  and  stirring  scene.  Pressing  as  were  the  claims  of  his 
private  feelings,  he  could  not  avoid  paying  some  attention  to  the 
first  regular  military  display  which,  soldier  though  he  was,  had 
come  so  closely  under  his  notice. 

During  the  approach  of  his  party  towards  the  commanding 
officer,  the  left  of  the  line  he  passed  was  composed  of  part  of 
the  finest-looking  among  the  English  army,  completely  appointed, 
bestriding  large,  strong,  and  handsome  horses,  their  accoutre¬ 
ments  and  uniform  bright  and  perfect.  It  was  scarce  necessary 
for  him  to  pass — as,  immediately  after,  he  did — the  whole  body 
of  the  Enniskilleners,  in  order  to  draw  a  contrast  between  them 
(including  himself)  and  their  English  allies.  Wondering  at  his 
former  lack  of  observation,  he  new  saw,  with  a  feeling  like 
shame,  the  uncouthness  and  comparative  wildness  of  their  ap¬ 
pearance  ;  their  different  colored  clothing ;  their  various  weap- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


375 


ons  ;  their  pistols  dangling  by  cords  to  their  sword-belts,  instead 
of  being  secured  in  holsters  ;  the  ugly  and  diminutive  “  garrons,” 
on  whose  backs  they  sat  ;  and  the  hordes  of  women,  almost  as 
rough  as  the  garrons,  and  uncouth  as  themselves,  who,  squatted 
on  the  grass  at  their  backs,  kept  up  a  shrill  gabble,  or  watched 
their  every  movement.  He  could  detect,  too,  in  the  glances  of 
the  English  troops  at  his  old  friends,  and  then  at  each  other, 
some  contempt,  some  mirth,  and  doubt  of  the  usefulness,  if  not 
certainly  of  the  uselessness  of  the  Enniskilleners.  Sentiments  in 
which  they  were  countenanced  by  Schomberg. 

But  Evelyn  could  not  long  suffer  the  intrusion  of  such  general 
thoughts.  Having  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  line,  his  eye 
caught,  seated  in  his  saddle  in  the  middle  of  the  plain,  the  figure 
of  the  man  he  panted  to  confront.  This,  at  least,  was  enough 
to  master  every  operation  of  his  mind  that  did  not  concern  him¬ 
self. 

“  Yonder/’  he  whispered  hastily  to  his  brother  officer — “  yon¬ 
der  is  the  villain — let  us  spur  forward.” 

“Hold,”  cried  his  friend,  “we  must  approach  with  some  cere 
mony.  Schomberg  is  at  his  side.” 

“Were  his  particular  devil  there,  I  care  not 1”  cried  Evelyn 
“  Follow,  if  you  will.” 

“  I  needs  must  follow  my  prisoner,”  answered  the  officer,  now 
speaking  to  himself  ;  “  though  this  is  wild  work.  Fall  back, 
men — I  ride  on,  alone.” 

As  Evelyn  approached  the  place  where  Kirke  stood,  he  was 
struck,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  speed  and  impatience,  with  the 
figure  of  the  person  to  whom  his  detested  enemy  addressed  dis¬ 
course.  This  was  a  very  old  man,  tall  and  bulky,  with  a  high- 
colored  face,  screened  by  a  profusion  of  snow-white  hair,  that 
flowed,  almost  as  fully  as  a  periwig,  from  under  his  old-fashioned, 
though  rich  and  picturesque,  helmet.  Tenacious,  like  all  old  people, 
of  the  costume  of  his  early  days,  he  further  appeared  clad  in  a 
corslet  of  solid  plate  armor,  with  pauldrons  or  paudrons,  gardes- 
brasses,  vambrace,  and  cuishes,  to  match.  While  in  lieu  of  the 
graceless  jack-boots,  now  generally  adopted  by  all  horsemen,  he 
sported  a  pair  of  the  elegant,  falling  half-boots,  of  russet  color, 
that  marked  the  era  of  Charles  I.,  drawn  over  a  tight-fitting 
pantaloon,  which,  although  the  wearer  lapsed  into  Shakspeare’s 
sixth  “  stage,”  health  and  exercise  still  kept  from  looking  “  lean 
and  slippered.”  Thus,  in  contrast  with  the  muddy-seeming  buff 
coats,  the  “  potts,”  or  close  steel  caps,  and  huge  hats,  around 


376 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


him — seldom  relieved  by  so  much  as  a  gorget — Schomberg’ s 
dress  did  not  appear  less  stamped  with  antiquity  than  hia 
features.  For  Evelyn  could  see,  at  a  closer  approach,  the  marks 
of  extreme  age  upon  them,  shown  in  the  red-fringed  eye,  and  in 
that  changeless,  unconscious,  and  expressionless  smile  of  the 
mouth,  which  is  the  forerunner,  if  not  the  evidence,  of  imbecility 
and  dotage. 

Before  Evelyn  had  quite  reached  his  point,  and  just  as  the 
eye  of  Kirke  shot  round  upon  him,  and  Schomberg  had  begun 
to  stare,  the  officer  of  the  Enmskilleners  overtook  him,  and 
said  : 

“  For  God’s  sake,  and  for  decency’s  sake,  patience.  Com¬ 
pose  yourself,  fall  back,  and  let  me  open  this  matter.  Schom¬ 
berg  has  already  imbibed  unfavorable  notions  of  our  temper, 
and  want  of  discipline  ;  do  not  afford  him  this  new  proof.” 

“  Well,”  said  Evelyn,  somewhat  convinced  of  a  necessity  for 
self-command,  “  I  will  do  as  you  please.  Pass  on.” 

The  officer  accordingly  passed  him,  and,  with  uncovered  head, 
said,  “  This  gentleman,  General  Kirke,  is  the  prisoner  you  de¬ 
sired  at  my  hands.  And  in  his  person,  may  it  please  your 
Grace,”  turning  to  Schomberg,  “  behold  Captain  Robert  Eve¬ 
lyn,  an  officer  of  account  among  our  native  troops.” 

As  Evelyn  bowed,  his  head  also  uncovered,  Kirke  leered, 
and  a  glance  passed  between  him  and  Schomberg. 

“Wehafe  heard  about  Mashters  Robert  Evelyn,”  observed 
Schomberg,  touching  his  helmet. 

“No  ill,  I  trust,  my  lord  duke  ?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“Now  dat  is  one  of  your  littel  big  Irish  questions,”  an¬ 
swered  the  marshal,  again  exchanging  a  glance  with  Kirke. 

“Perhaps  I  should  have  proffered  my  question  elsewhere,” 
retorted  Evelyn,  fixing  his  regards  on  the  other  general. 

“  Be  prudent,  I  entreat  you,”  whispered  his  companion  ; 
“  only  be  prudent,  and  fear  nothing.  I  have  possessed  my  troop 
with  all  I  suspect  of  your  case.  They  will  spread  it  among  the 
rest  of  the  Enniskilleners,  and  they  amongst  the  English,  who 
dislike  Kirke  as  much  as  you  do  ;  and — ” 

“  Fear  nothing,”  interrupted  Evelyn,  “  I  will  only  be  firm.” 

Then  moving  his  horse  a  few  paces  forward,  he  continued  to 
address  Kirke. 

“  My  brother  officer,  sir,  informs  me  I  am  to  consider  myseif 
a  prisoner,  under  your  arrest.” 

“  He  has  correctly  informed  you,  sir,”  sneered  Kirke. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  377 

“  May  I  beg  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  my 
offence,  General  Kirke  ?” 

“  Some  other  time,  perhaps,  Captain  Evelyn — runs  not  the 
address  so  ?  For  I  believe  you  are  all  captains.”  Once  more 
he  looked  at  Schomberg,  but  the  bluff  probity  and  good  feeling 
for  which  that  old  commander  was  remarkable,  did  not,  in  this 
instance,  accord  him  any  answering  grin. 

“  I  respectfully  appeal  to  the  commander-in-chief,  to  decide 
whether  or  no  I  am  entitled  to  an  answer,”  continued  Evelyn, 
on  whom  Schomberg’s  expression  of  countenance  was  not 
lost. 

“  Oh,  certainlies,  you  are,  mein  goot  sir,”  said  Schomberg  ; 
"  and  General  Kirke  does  not  refuse  his  answers.” 

Kirke  slightly  bit  his  lip  ;  and — 

“  You  know  the  offence  already,  my  lord,”  he  said  ;  “  and  it 
is,  as  I  have  informed  your  grace,  aiding  and  abettiug  rebels 
found  with  arms  in  their  hands.” 

“  That  is  it,”  resumed  Schomberg,  addressing  Evelyn. 

“  Then  it  is  false,  may  it  please  your  grace,”  Evelyn  answered. 

“  Mein  Heafen  !”  exclaimed  Schomberg,  “  here  is  much  more 
of  the  Lashers’  hot  tempers  ;  it  will  expose  us  all.  Dismiss  the 
men,”  to  some  officers  who  had  begun  to  crowd  around,  “  and 
let  them  not  see  such  bad  examples.”  The  officers  drew  off  to 
obey  his  orders.  “  Basta !  I  hafe  nefer  met  such  things  in  any 
service  with  your  Frenchmens,  your  Portuguese,  your  Branden- 
bergians,  your  Englishmans,  or  your  Dutchmans  ;  sacre  !  nefer. 
You,  one  Enniskilleners — you  ride  here  to  join  us  on  your  very 
big  lean  cats,  and  all  de  wild  womans  of  Irelands  at  your  backs, 
to  eat  up  our  food,  or  to  thief  it.  You  cry,  in  great  spirits, 
indeed,  1  Send  us  always  on  de  forlorn  of  de  army,’  and  you  get 
one  little  command  which  does  not  put  you  on  de  forlorn  at  all. 
And  den  you  cry  again,  ‘  Oh,  we  can  nefer  do  any  good  now  no 
more,  indeed,  for  we  are  put  under  orders  !’  And  now  you 
come  here  over  again  to  give  us  de  challenge  for  de  rencontre, 
de  duello,  just  only  because  we  put  you  in  arrest  for  fighting 
against  us,  mein  goot  Gott !” 

Evelyn  prudently  allowed  this  little  burst  of  heat,  uncon¬ 
nected  as  it  really  was  with  his  individual  case,  to  work  itself 
out.  Nor  did  he  hasten  to  reply  even  when  the  old  disciplinarian 
had  done,  hoping  that  he  himself  would  come  back  to  the  point 
at  issue. 

And  he  was  not  disappointed.  After  a  short  pause,  while  the 


378 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


broken  lines  were  moving  hastily  across  the  plain,  Schomberg 
again  spoke. 

“  And  so,  Masthers  Captain  Evelyn,  you  say  you  did  not  aid 
and  abet  rebels — no,  indeed  ?” 

“  May  it  please  your  grace,”  answered  Evelyn,  “  the  case  is 
this.  I  accompanied  from  Derry  (a  Protestant  clergyman  also 
in  company)  some  very  old  and  dear  friends,  who  had  obtained, 
before  we  set  out,  passes  and  protections  from  the  proper  author¬ 
ities.  While  visiting  with  them  their  ruined  house,  which  Gen¬ 
eral  Kirke  had  just  burnt,  and  while  they  were  bewailing  their 
aged  father,  who  lay  dead  on  his  own  hearthstone  (though  for 
him,  too,  we  brought  a  protection  with  us),  this  same  General 
Kirke  returned  to  the  house,  and  endeavored  to  gain  entrance 
for  the  purpose  of  sacrificing  my  friends.  Some  resistance  his 
people  did  encounter  from  the  son  of  the  old  man  who  lay  mur¬ 
dered.  He  then  called  on  me  to  assist  him  in  murdering  that 
son  also,  which  call  I  refused,  because  I  durst  not  lay  hand  on 
those  who  were  regularly  protected.  Against  him  or  his  soldiers 
I  never  pointed  a  sword.  Such,  my  lord  duke,  is  the  aiding  and 
abetting  with  which  I  am  charged.” 

“  But  it  was  not  aiding  and  abetting,  not  at  all,  when — dat 
is,  if  the  peoples  were,  as  you  hafe  said,  protected,  indeed.  I 
did  not  hear  of  protections,  before,”  he  added,  glancing  at 
Kirke. 

“Nor  are  you  likely  to  hear  of  them  again,  to  much  purpose, 
my  lord,”  said  that  officer,  still  sneering.  “  Supposing  such 
documents  to  have  ever  existed,  one  of  my  men  was  killed  before 
a  word  of  explanation  could  be  offered  or  demanded.” 

“  Yes,  by  the  old  man’s  son,  when — his  father  dead  at  his  feet ! 
more,  more,  your  grace  !  his  sister  at  his  side  1 — the  soldier 
crosse*’  the  threshold  of  his  house  to  execute  the  cruel  orders  we 
had  heard  General  Kirke  issue  against  us,”  said  Evelyn. 

“  Then  we  cannot  help  that  mans,”  resumed  Schomberg. 
'*  He  was  cut  down  by  a  protected  rebel,  in  which  you  call  self- 
defences.  Always,  that  is,  if  he  had  his  protections.  Where  is 
it  now,  or  where  is  he  ?” 

“  Ay,  where  is  it,  indeed  ?”  repeated  Kirke. 

“You  know,  sir,”  retorted  Evelyn,  “that  the  Protestant  cler¬ 
gyman  put  it  into  your  hands.” 

“I  am  not  to  know  any  such  thing,  at  your  pleasure,  sir. 
The  clergyman  you  speak  of  is  now  in  Derry,  or  God  knows 
where,”  answered  Kirke 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


379 


"Well,  this  is  unlucky.  I  shall  only  ask  you,  then,  to  declare 
the  name  of  the  youug  person  in  question.  It  was  Edmund 
McDonnell,  I  believe  ?” 

“  I  have  heard  so.” 

“Then  here,  my  lord  duke,”  resumed  Evelyn,  shaking  with 
mpatience,  as  he  produced  the  protection,  which,  having  fallen 
from  Kirke’s  hands  during  the  struggle  with  the  Rapparees,  he 
had  picked  up  before  leaving,  late  at  night,  the  ruined  dwelling 
of  the  M’Donnells — “  here  is  the  document.” 

Kirke  grew  pale,  as  Schomberg,  on  looking  at  it,  pronounced 
it  to  be  a  true  one.  “  And  General  Kirke  will  now  take  off 
your  arrest,  mein  goot  sir,”  he  added. 

Kirke  bowed.  There  was  a  murmur  either  against  him,  or  in 
approval  of  the  arrangement,  among  many  officers,  and  some 
privates,  English  and  Irish,  who,  after  the  dismiss,  had  ventured 
to  draw  towards  the  spot. 

“  I  humbly  thank  your  grace  ;  and  would  crave  the  freedom 
of  another  word,”  said  the  liberated  prisoner.  “  Since  it  now 
appears  that  Edmund  McDonnell  stood  free  from  the  power  of 
General  Kirke,  and  since  it  can  be  shown — if,  indeed,  the  general 
denies  it — that  his  own  eye  informed  him  of  the  fact,  I  hope  I 
am  not  too  bold  to  expect,  through  the  justice  and  tenderness  of 
your  grace,  that  some  account  will  be  given  of  the  fate  of  the 
young  man,  who,  when  I  became  insensible,  in  consequence  of 
this  wound,”  pointing  to  his  head,  “  was  surrounded  by  a  numer¬ 
ous  body  of  soldiers — but  whom,  upon  my  recovery,  I  could  not 
find  on  the  spot,  alive  or  dead ;  and  who  has  not  since  been 
heard  of.” 

“  Certainlies.  General  Kirke  will  give  accounts.” 

“  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,”  said  Kirke,  sullenly. 

“  I  charge  him,  under  favor  of  your  grace,  with  a  full  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  matter,”  continued  Evelyn,  still  trying  to  check  him¬ 
self,  though  his  bosom  was  bursting  with  passion. 

“  Oh,  surelies,  the  general  will  remember,”  said  Schomberg, 
addressing  himself  coldly  to  Kirke. 

“  I  pray  your  grace  that  he  may  be  exhorted  to  do  so.  And 
there  is  another  occasion  for  his  memory.  Your  grace  has  heard 
me  speak  of  a  sister  of  Edmund  McDonnell — a  young,  beautiful, 
and  now  orphan  lady” — the  emotion  Evelyn  vainly  strove  to 
hide  filled  his  eyes,  and  choked  his  voice. 

“  Basta  !”  interrupted  Schomberg,  frowning  suspiciously  on 
Kirke,  in  full  recollection,  doubtless,  of  his  well-known  char- 


380 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


acter.  "  Is  there  one  handsome  young  womans  missing 
too  ?” 

“And  protected  also,  as  your  grace  may  see,  by  this  other 
paper.  Let  me  add,  my  wife,  my  lord  duke  ;  though  our  marriage 
was  a  private  one.”  A  second  loud  murmur  arose  among  the 
bystanders,  which,  perhaps,  had  the  immediate  effect  of  en¬ 
couraging,  or  sympathetically  exciting  all  the  long-smothered 
feelings  of  Evelyn  ;  for,  quickly  turning  his  horse — “  Villain  1” 
he  exclaimed,  “  where  is  that  lady  ?” 

“  I  am  not  bound,”  replied  Kirke,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  “to 
hold  any  errant  damoselle  under  my  care,  for  any  errant  knight 
that  may  choose  to  claim  her  from  me.  Though,  to  say  truth, 
it  was  a  pretty  piece  of  flesh  and  blood,  and,  I  remember,  won 
some  favor  in  my  eyes.  Or  supposing  me  to  know  aught  of  thr 
wench,  even  in  that  case  am  I  bound — ” 

“  Damnable  wretch  l”  interrupted  Evelyn,  the  taunt  and  im¬ 
plication  wholly  depriving  him  of  reason  and  self-command,  as, 
spurring  his  horse,  he  dashed  at  Kirke,  and  seized  him  by  the 
throat.  “  Monster  !  what  have  you  done  with  that  lady  ? 
Produce  her,  and  produce  her  as  she  fell  into  your  tainted  hands 
— the  chaste  and  orphan  daughter  of  a  virtuous,  a  murdered 
father.  As  my  wife,  produce  her ! — as  my  wife,  blasted  villain !” 
Evelyn’s  voice  rose  piteously  shrill.  “  Do  this,  and  do  it  soon — • 
now — this  instant — or  by  the  heaven  you  scoff,  and  the  hell 
that  aids  you — ” 

“  Mein  Gott!”  interrupted  Schomberg,  advancing,  as  the  re¬ 
peated  murmurs  of  the  spectators  seemed  to  encourage  Evelyn, 
while  a  portion  of  Kirke’s  own  regiment  galloped  hastily  across 
the  ground. 

“  Mein  goot  Gott,  I  do  say!  Here  will  be  one  littel  engage¬ 
ment  among  ourselves,  and  one  victory  for  the  rebels,  whoever 
shall  win.  Mashters  Captain  Evelyn !  draw  off  and  fall  back, 
or,  by  mine  honors,  I  will  cut  your  crown.  Take  your  hands 
away,  or  expect  nothing  from  me.  Sacra  !”  he  continued,  as 
thes-e  words  brought  Evelyn  to  his  senses,  and  caused  him  to 
unloose  his  grasp  ;  “  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Enniskilleners,  to  take 
all  de  laws  into  your  own  hands,  and  cut  every  one  man’s  throat 
as  you  like?  Fall  back,  sir  ;  fall  back,  too,  General  Kirke,  de 
other  vay.  Some  of  you,  gentlemen,  stand  between  them. 
Basta  !  your  Spaniard  is  not  half  so  hot  as  your  wild  Irishmans 
I  do  a  littel  begin  to  think  dey  will  be  very  goot  for  a  charge, 
v\  hen  their  one  starved  garrons  are  made  fatter.  So,  vary  goot, 


THE  BO^NE  WATER. 


381 


Let  both  the  gentlemens  grow  cooler  dere,  and  let  all  the 
peoples  that  make  one  crowd  here,  for  nothing  at  all,  go  away, 
and  den  we  will  talk  of  this  matter.” 

But  to  Schomberg’s  surprise  and  vexation,  the  Enniskilleners 
firmly,  though  respectfully,  preferred  to  remain  until  they  should 
see  their  officer  righted. 

“  Vary  goot,  again.  And,  basta  !  if  I  order  you  to  lay  down 
your  arms,”  addressing  the  volunteer  officer — the  friend  of  Eve¬ 
lyn,  who  had  brought  him  this  message,  “  which  I  ought  to  do,  1 
suppose  you  will  all  go.  with  all  your  lean  horses,  and  all  your  fat 
womans,  over  to  the  rebels,  early  in  the  morning  ?  Or  else  draw 
out  to  fight  General  Kirke’s  men,  that  I  do  see  are  also  come  to 
afford  us  their  companies  ?  It  is  all  vary  goot,  I  say  ,  I  will 
obey  your  orders,  every  one.  And  so  let  us  now  end  the  affair, 
Geneial  Kirke.” 

“  I  rely  upon  your  grace  to  afford  me  prompt  satisfaction  for 
this  insult — for  this  abuse  and  assault  from  an  inferior  officer,” 
said  Kirke. 

“Yes  ;  if  you  tell  him  where  to  find  his  wife,”  replied  Schom- 
berg. 

“  That  I  cannot ;  or — let  your  grace  excuse  me — I  am  not 
bound  to  do.” 

“You  will  see,  mein  goot  General  Kirke,”  resumed  the  old 
marshal,  quietly,  but  angrily.  “I  am  a  father  myself,  and  I 
have  been  a  husband,  and  I  cannot  hafe  an  old  man’s  child,  nor 
a  young  man’s  wife,  made  away  with  in  this  fashion,  by  any 
officer  under  my  commands.  You  shall  also  see  I  am  your  com¬ 
mander  here,  though  you  were  your  own  commander  when  James 
was  up,  in  the  west  of  England  yonder.  So,  if  you  know  vary 
much  about  the  poor  young  womans,  you  will  tell  me,  or — 
though  I  cannot  force  you  to  give  answers,  nor  punish  you  for 
silence — you  shall  have  very  little  satisfactions  at  all  for  Captain 
Evelyn’s  words  and  blow.” 

“  I  thank  your  grace  for  the  choice  you  leave  me,  as  well  as 
for  the  whole  spirit  of  the  decision.  But  I  beg  to  decline  an¬ 
swering  the  impertinent  and  wild  assertions  of  any  coxcomb  ” 

“  Sacra !  hafe  you  the  lady  in  your  hands  ?  Answer  me,  man.” 

“  Again,  may  it  please  your  grace,  I  shall  be  silent.” 

“  Diavolo  1 — Diable  ! — Deyvil  ! — take  cares  what  you  do  ;  I 
will  get  proofs  against  you,  and,  then,  look  to  yourself,  General 
Kirke.  Here,  Mashters  Evelyn,  can  you  give  me  proofs  that 
this  womans-eater  took  off  your  wife  ?”  ' 


382 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  I  can,  my  lord,  by  your  allowing  me  a  few  days  to  send  for 
the  witness,”  answered  Evelyn,  advancing. 

“  Basta,  sir,  what  will  you  mean,  at  all  ?  Why  will  you  come 
here  to  make  charges  without  the  proofs  by  your  side  ?  I  tell 
you,  Mashters  Robert  Evelyn,  only  let  me  hafe  proofs,  and  I 
will  change  his  general’s  commission  into  one  dirty  bit  of  waste 
papers — hagel !  I  will.” 

“  Meantime,  under  your  grace’s  favor,  I  stand,  in  the  absence 
of  all  proof,  clear  of  the  charge  ;  and,  therefore,  I  humbly  pre¬ 
sume,  entitled  to  the  satisfaction  I  have  demanded,”  resumed 
Kirke. 

“  No,  mein  worthy  sir,  not  till  we  see  whether  or  no  Captain 
Evelyn  can  make  his  stories  goot.” 

“  Or,”  said  Evelyn,  “  until  my  witnesses  can  arrive.  Or, 
without  at  all  troubling  your  grace  to  wait  for  further  proof  of 
the  matter,  I  will  be  content  with  one  plain  course.  Let  me 
have  your  grace’s  permission,”  he  continued,  in  returning  rage, 
“  to  prove  my  words  upon  the  body  of  the  wretch  I  accuse  of 
this  crime,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  let  him  have  the  only 
chance  of  satisfaction  for  my  former  insults,  which,  waiving  the 
formalities  of  nominal  rank,  one  courageous  gentlemen  can  seek 
from  another.” 

“  That  will  all  happen  as  General  Kirke  will  like,”  answered 
Schomberg,  not  displeased,  perhaps,  at  a  prospect  of  a  summary 
discomfiture,  in  one  shape  or  another,  to  Kirke.  “  I  am  satisfied, 
in  order  to  put  ends  to  this  affair,  to  enable  him  to  meet  your 
challenge,  without  endangering  his  rank,  and  you  to  give  it  with¬ 
out  fear  of  the  articles  of  war.  Mein  Heafen ! — let  it  be  so,  if 
your  Irish  fashion  of  the  duello  likes  his  English  prudence.” 

“  Thanks,  my  gracious  lord — thanks.  Here,  then.” 

“  But  you  will  remember,  mein  goot  Mashters  Evelyn,  that 
this  rencontre,  end  as  it  may,  puts  it  out  of  your  powers  to  renew 
the  questions  in  any  other  way  at  all.” 

“  I  am  content,  my  lord — more — I  am  grateful.  And  now 
do  I  pronounce  General  Kirke  a  false  villain,  if  he  denies  my 
charge,  or  if  he  refuses  to  render  up  the  lady  ;  and  a  treble 
coward,  if  he  refuses  me  satisfaction.  Or  if — for  my  past  insults 
and  for  this — and  this” — he  continued,  his  passion  again  over¬ 
coming  him,  as  he  struck  Kirke  with  the  flat  of  his  sword — “  ii 
he  refuses  it.” 

“Fool  1”  cried  Kirke,  in  sudden  frenzy  ;  “I  do  not  refuse, 
Dismount,  and  follow  me.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


383 


They  flung  themselves  from  their  horses  at  the  same  moment. 

“  Not  a  step  from  the  ground  we  tread  on?”  continued  Eve¬ 
lyn,  thrusting  at  him.  There  was  no  alternative  but  combat  on 
the  spot.  Kirke  skilfully  parried  tin  thrust  with  a  beautiful 
crescent  sabre,  and  seemed  content  to  stand,  for  a  time,  upon 
the  defensive,  and  allow  Evelyn’s  rage  to  exhaust  itself.  Their 
troops  closed  round,  and  Schomberg  looked  on  with  much  tran¬ 
quillity.  Evelyn  continued  the  attack,  and  by  a  rash  and  desper¬ 
ate  effort,  seized  Kirke’s  blade,  near  the  handle,  and  closed  upon 
him.  But  his  antagonist  had  a  dagger  ready  in  his  left  hand,  at 
the  sight  of  which  the  Euniskilleners  cried  out,  “  Equal  weapons  ! 
— fair  play  I” — and  one  from  among  their  body,  a  very  young, 
fresh-colored  lad,  rushed  forward,  jumped  on  the  ground,  and, 
running  to  the  combatants,  twitched  the  treacherous  weapon  out 
of  Kirke’s  hand,  and  disappeared  in  a  trice,  back  again  among 
the  dragoons.  Evelyn,  at  a  slight  glance,  thought  the  face  fa¬ 
miliar  to  him. 

During  the  diversion  this  incident  caused,  Kirke  regained  full 
use  of  his  sabre,  and  the  combat  continued  with  fury  on  both 
sides.  At  length,  having  overreached  himself  with  a  violent 
push,  Evelyn’s  foot  slipped  on  the  damp  and  trodden  grass,  and 
he  fell.  Kirke’s  point  was  instantly  at  his  heart,  as  he  forced 
Evelyn’s  swTord  from  his  grasp. 

“  Strike,  villain  1”  cried  the  despairing  youth  ;  “you  have  left 
me  nothing  to  live  for — strike  !” 

“  It  is  not  worth  the  while,”  replied  his  adversary,  apprehen¬ 
sion  of  those  around  assisting,  perhaps,  his  wish  to  appear  mag¬ 
nanimous.  “Live  longer,  and  grow  wiser.”  And  he  imme¬ 
diately  turned  away. 

“  Kirke  1”  shrieked  Evelyn,  starting  up,  following  him,  and 
casting  himself  wildly  on  his  knees — “  Kirke  ! — wretch — monster 
— coward — strike  1  Or,  oh !  since  I  can  no  longer  compel  your 
justice — your  mercy — I  implore — beg  it  1  Restore  her — unin¬ 
jured,  if  you  can  ;  but  in  any  case,  restore  her,  and  I  will  bless 
you  as  fervently  as  I  now  beg  for  the  boon !” 

“  Tush,  sir,”  answered  Kirke,  twitching  the  skirt  of  his  buff 
coat  out  of  Evelyn’s  desperate  grasp,  “this  is  too  Quixotic.” 
And  he  left  the  ground. 

“  Rise,  Captain  Evelyn,”  said  Schomberg,  advancing,  appa¬ 
rently  somewhat  affected  ;  “lam  sorry  for  all  this — but  rise — the 
discomfiture  does  not  touch  your  honor.  It  was  a  fair  combat, 
fought  with  all  courage  on  your  parts  ;  and  you  will  not  yet 


384 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


despair  entirely,  indeed,  of  success  in  the  other  matter — and  you 
will  come  to  my  tent  when  you  are  more  composed.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Evelyn  was  led  by  his  brother  officers  and  others,  almost  in¬ 
sensible,  to  one  of  the  huts  belonging  to  the  encampment.  De¬ 
spair  had  fully  seized  him.  He  continued  nearly  unconscious  of 
the  friendly  words  addressed  to  his  ear,  and  of  the  friendly 
actions  performed  towards  him.  And  when  their  duties  called 
his  friends  away,  Evelyn  felt  as  indifferent  to  their  absence  as  he 
had  been  to  their  presence,  and  equally  regardless  to  the  mute 
attentions  of  a  young  private  of  the  Enniskilleners  who  remained 
to  wait  on  him,  and  who,  having  placed  refreshments  on  a  coarse 
table,  stood  behind  his  officer’s  seat,  deeply  interested,  apparently, 
in  the  afflictiou  he  could  not  presume  to  console.  More  than 
once,  indeed,  a  vague  idea  entered  Evelyn’s  mind,  that  the  slight, 
short,  and  youthful  figure  which  noiselessly  moved  around  him, 
might  be  that  of  the  lad  who,  during  his  combat  w'ith  Kirke,  had 
plucked  the  dagger  from  the  hand  of  his  detested  adversary. 
But  so  clouded  and  inane  were  Evelyn’s  thoughts  and  feelings, 
with  reference  to  any  thing  not  absolutely  making  part  of  his 
grief,  that  this  notion  occurred  but  to  be  forgotten  ;  and  he  did 
not  once  raise  his  eyes  to  pursue  it  by  looking  at  the  face  of 
his  mute  attendant. 

When  he  began  to  reflect  a  little  more  regularly  on  the  occur¬ 
rences  that  had  just  taken  place,  Evelyn’s  keenest  anguish  and 
self-reproach  arose  from  the  recollection,  that  by  madly  giving  way 
to  passion,  and  putting  all  upon  the  chance  of  a  personal  combat 
with  Kirke,  he  had,  in  the  presence  of  a  crowd  of  witnesses, 
abandoned  all  right  to  seek,  in  any  other  shape,  a  future  expla¬ 
nation  of  the  fate  of  Eva.  And  as  this  thought  continued  to 
present  itself,  he  writhed,  and  groaned  aloud. 

When  he  strove  to  consider  the  matter  consecutively,  he  found 
that,  distinct  from  the  entanglement  in  which  it  was  involved  by 
his  own  state  of  mind,  it  was  otherwise  clouded  and  confused. 
Where  could  Kirke  have  disposed  of  Eva?  Was  she  in  his 
tent  this  moment  ?  If  so,  would  he  dare  to  refuse  the  explana* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


385 


tion  sought  ft  om  him,  with  the  proof  of  his  crime  so  near  at 
baud,  and  so  accessible  ?  This  seemed  extraordinary,  improbar 
ble.  Yet,  where  else  could  he  have  conveyed  her?  Or — and 
the  bare  surmise  was  torture — had  the  ruffian  first  gratified  his 
brutal  passion,  and  then  called  on  murder  to  hush,  at  once  and  for¬ 
ever,  the  voice  of  his  victim,  and  the  wituess  against  him  ?  And 
Edmund, — little  doubt  could  be  entertained  that  Moya’s  account 
of  him  was  irae.  It  did  not  appear  possible  that,  after  the  strong 
re-enforcement  had  reached  Kirke  at  the  Strip  of  Burne,  he 
would  have  spared,  in  the  moment  of  returned  success,  the  man 
on  account  of  whose  resistance  he  had  incurred,  including  the 
Whisperer’s  agency,  so  much  danger,  vexation,  and  outrage. 
Above  all,  the  brother  of  her  on  whom  he  had  fixed  an  unholy  eye, 
and  from  whom  the  most  determined  opposition  must  have  been 
expected.  Tnerefore,  M’Donnell  had,  doubtless,  fallen  by  his 
father’s  side  the  moment  he  escaped  from  Evelyn’s  control,  and 
that  the  soldiers  wounded  and  overpowered  him.  Eor,  in  Evelyn’s 
calculations,  retreat  or  surrender  was  out  of  the  question  on  the 
part  of  one  so  excited  and  so  desperate  as  Edmund  continued  to 
be;  further  maddened,  too,  by  the  sight  of  Eva  dragged  from  him 
to  shame  and  ruin.  Had  the  Protestant  clergyman  witnessed 
that  horrible  event  ?  Here  came  the  first  ray  of  hope.  Although 
he  could  not  answer  the  question,  it  seemed  almost  certain  that 
such  must  have  been  the  case.  He  therefore  determined  to 
write  after  his  reverend  friend  to  Derry,  and  thus  arrive  at  evi¬ 
dence,  which,  if  it  went  hand  in  hand  with  Moya’s  previous 
story,  would  amount  to  proof.  Yet,  of  what  use  to  him  were 
such  proof,  when  he  had  beforehand  recorded  against  himself  a 
renunciation  of  it  ?  Once  more,  this  reflection  brought  with  it 
intolerable  end  despairing  agony. 

But,  as  the  evening  wore  away,  Evelyn’s  mind  gave  some 
slight  indication  of  returning  self-control,  in  the  comparative 
facility  w»  ,h  which  it  continued  to  debate  other  things,  but  of 
secondary  consideration.  What  had  become  of  Father  M’Don¬ 
nell  and  Varolan  ?  Had  they,  too,  fallen  victims  to  the  rage  and 
revenge'-  /  Kirke  ?  Alas!  it  was  very  probable.  And  might 
not  the  Protestant  clergyman  himself  have  shared  their  fate  ? 
He  had  endeavored  to  stem  the  torrent  of  Kirke’s  violeuce  ;  he 
was  a  witness  to  the  existence  of  documents  which,  having  been 
submitted,  would  make  that  violence  criminal  ;  perhaps  he  was 
a  witness  to  the  murder  of  Edmund,  and  the  forcible  abduction 
jf  his  sister.  The  speedy  ascertaining  of  this  latter  point  now 


S86 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


became  the  strongest  anxiety  of  Evelyn  ;  he  resolved,  instead  of 
fmtiug,  to  go  to  Derry,  if,  indeed,  the  stern  duties  and  circum¬ 
stances  of  the  time  permitted  such  a  step.  Schomberg  should 
decide  that  question. 

While  sitting  motionless,  and  now  in  darkness,  a  messenger 
arrived  from  the  tent  of  the  commander-in-chief,  to  say,  that  if 
Captain  Evelyn  was  better,  the  duke  would  speak  with  him. 
Evelyn  returned  a  hasty  answer,  promising  immediate  attend¬ 
ance.  His  first  reason  for  instantly  complying  with  the  intima¬ 
tion,  arose  out  of  his  wish  to  crave  leave  of  absence  from  the 
camp  ;  and  he  was  eagerly  rushing  out,  filled  with  this  idea, 
when  his  natural  and  habitual  prudence  caused  him  to  recollect 
that  it  became  his  duty  and  his  interest,  if  he  at  all  presented 
himself  before  Schomberg,  to  place  some  decent  restraint  over 
his  manner,  and  to  prepare  his  mind,  difficult  and  repugnant  as 
was  the  task,  for  an  attention  to  whatever  general  matters  his 
commander  might  happen  to  speak  of.  So,  after  a  necessary 
pause,  and  much  inward  struggle,  Evelyn  manned  and  mastered 
himself,  as  well  as  he  could,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  hut.  As 
he  looked  round  for  his  cloak  and  hat,  he  perceived  they  had 
been  placed,  by  his  mute  servant,  on  the  seat  hitherto  occupied 
by  him.  In  his  somewhat  calm  state  of  mind,  this  attention 
struck  him  as  remarkable  ;  he  began  also  to  connect  with  it 
floating  recollections  of  the  whole  demeanor  of  this  individual 
during  his  long  fit  of  abstraction  ;  then  the  incident  of  the 
dagger,  and  his  fancy,  at  the  time,  that  the  boy’s  face  was  fa¬ 
miliar  to  him.  At  last,  won  into  something  like  interest,  he 
glanced  around  in  an  involuntary  wish  to  make  more  particular 
observations.  At  first  he  saw  no  person  in  the  hut ;  but,  ad¬ 
vancing  to  a  corner,  he  saw  the  youth,  wrapped  in  a  dragoon’s 
cloak,  lying  motionless  on  the  damp  floor. 

“  He  sleeps,”  said  Evelyn  ;  “  and  is  too  happy  to  be  dis¬ 
turbed.”  And  he  hastened  forth,  in  a  renewal  of  bitterest  feel¬ 
ings  at  the  contrast  between  his  own  bosom  and  that  of  the 
sleeping  lad.  But  ere  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  rude  door¬ 
way,  a  deep  sigh,  at  his  back,  seemed  in  some  degree  to  lessen 
the  strength  of  the  supposed  contrast. 

Gaining  the  tent  and  the  presence  of  the  commander-in-chief, 
he  was  bluntly,  though  kindly  received,  and  found  the  old  veter¬ 
an  engaged,  with  his  secretary,  in  tracing  district  maps,  examin¬ 
ing  engineers’  plans,  and  accounts  of  the  agricultural  state  of 
the  country  through  which  he  was  about  to  march.  He  in* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


387 


formed  Evelyn  that  he  was  in  want  of  an  intelligent,  loyal  native, 
acquainted  with  the  roads  and  the  present  condition,  in  many 
respects,  of  the  southern  route  he  determined  immediately  to 
take  ;  and  he  paid  him  the  compliment  of  at  once  appointing 
him  as  a  person  better  qualified  for  this  duty  than  any  one  he 
had  yet  met  since  his  arrival  in  Ireland.  Evelyn  bowed  in 
silence,  fearful  of  saying  a  word  towards  declining  the  honor,  but 
miserably  conscious,  at  the  same  time,  that,  should  the  appoint¬ 
ment  last,  he  would  be  obliged  to  sacrifice  his  intention  of  get¬ 
ting  back  to  Derry. 

Schomberg,  gave  him  little  time,  indeed,  to  utter  a  word  on 
the  subject,  but  immediately  invited  him  to  sit  by  his  side,  and, 
referring  to  the  maps,  plans,  and  reports,  plunged  at  once  into 
business.  Following  up  the  wise  reflections  he  had  previously 
made  as  to  what  topics  he  might  be  called  on  to  discuss,  Evelyn 
laboriously  endeavored  to  abstract  his  mind  from  its  private 
griefs,  and  fix  it  on  the  matter  in  hand.  He  was  partially  suc¬ 
cessful  ;  and  the  shrewd  old  general  making,  doubtless,  the  al¬ 
lowance  that  his  knowledge  of  Evelyn’s  situation  suggested,  ex¬ 
pressed  much  content,  notwithstanding  fits  of  absence,  and  hasty 
and  unintelligible  answers,  with  the  local  information  Evelyn  was 
able  to  convey. 

Finally,  Schomberg  intimated  his  resolve  of  marching  upon 
Newry,  early  in  the  morning.  His  raw  army  had  already  suf¬ 
fered  a  little,  he  said,  from  the  very  bad  condition  of  the  roads, 
the  bogs  and  swamps  they  encountered,  whenever  a  campaign 
’iue  of  march  had  been  attempted  ;  lastly,  and  particularly, 
from  the  want  of  provisions.  But  they  were  refreshed  by  their 
present  halt,  and  inspired  by  the  recollection  that  hitherto  their 
career  bad  been  a  triumphant  one,  unchecked  by  even  the 
appearance  of  any  enemy.  And  although  Evelyn’s  account  of 
the  districts  lying  between  Loughbrickland  and  Newry,  and 
again  between  Newry  and  Dundalk,  nearer  to  the  coast,  were  by 
no  means  favorable,  still  Schomberg  determined  to  lead  them  to 
both  these  places  in  quest  of  the  foe  ;  especially,  as  he  had  to 
meet  his  artillery  and  stores  at  Carlingford  Bay. 

Evelyn,  now  wholly  engaged  with  his  own  private  affairs,  only 
waited  until  Schomberg  had  done  speaking  to  get  in,  as  well  as 
he  could,  the  request  for  leave  of  absence.  But  just  as  he  was 
about  to  open  his  lips  for  the  purpose,  the  commander  kindly 
bade  him  good-night,  and  adding,  by  the  way,  that  Evelyn  would 
do  well  to  prepare  himself  for  attending  him  as  aid-de-camp 


388 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


in  lieu  of  a  young  English  officer,  the  spoiled  child  of  a  wealthy 
country  gentleman,  whom  the  Irish  bogs,  and  other  unexpected 
difficulties,  had  visited  with  a  severe  illness  on  the  second  day’s 
march  from  Can\ckfergus. 

The  complimented  person  heard  this  additional  honor  conferred 
upon  him  with  more  dislike  than  is  generally  felt  by  young  and 
ambitious  men,  at  an  unexpected  progress  on  the  road  of  military 
distinction.  Uttering  not  a  word  in  reply,  he  only  bowed,  in 
an  embarrassed  manner,  and  once  more  endeavored  to  shape 
his  private  purpose  into  fitting  speech,  while  Schomberg,  as 
if  he  understood  that  some  demur  was  about  to  be  made, 
and  as  if  he  thought  it  kind  and  useful  to  his  young  protege, 
not  to  suffer  him  to  give  it  expression,  hastily  repeated  his 
farewells  for  the  night,  and  would  have  ended  all  further  con¬ 
ference. 

But  just  as  Evelyn  was  about  to  retire,  confused  and  over¬ 
whelmed,  a  sudden  spirit  unloosed  his  tongue,  and  he  urged, 
respectfully  and  modestly,  his  long-suppressed  suit.  At  the  first 
words,  Schomberg  looked  surprised  ;  and,  when  he  understood 
the  full  nature  of  the  request,  offended  and  stern.  If,  by  such 
an  untimely  movement,  he  said,  Captain  Evelyn  meant  to  decline 
the  trouble  or  the  honor  of  the  appointments  conferred  upon 
him,  he  wras  at  liberty  to  free  himself  of  them,  that  moment ; 
but  not  to  absent  himself  from  ordinary  duty.  It  was  another 
question,  whether  a  young  man,  already  suspected,  though  not 
by  the  loyal  friends  that  knew  him  well,  of  lukewarmness  to  the 
cause  of  King  Wdliam,  should  be  permitted  to — 

Here  poor  Evelyn,  at  first  hurt  by  the  half-uttered  insinuation, 
burst  into  indignant  tears.  Schomberg  did  not  finish  the  sen¬ 
tence,  but,  advancing  to  him,  changed  his  stern  tone  into  one  of 
kindness  and  commiseration  ;  gave  him  to  understand  that  he 
suspected  the  object  of  his  intended  journey  ;  but  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  it  were  better,  even  for  his  private  interests, 
to  keep  an  eye  at  home  ;  that  he  had  not  forgotten  to  consider 
vhat  might  be  the  more  prudent  course  of  conduct ;  and  that 
he  would,  himself,  assist  Evelyn  in  adopting  it.  Meantime,  he 
exhorted  him  to  attend  strictly  to  his  professional  duties,  as,  at 
once,  his  more  respectable  line  of  behavior,  and  that  best  calcu¬ 
lated  to  supersede  the  vain  excess  of  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
always  attended  on  a  distressed  mind.  Adding,  that  he  had 
created  an  interest,  as  Well  by  his  spirited,  though  somewhat 
extravagant  bearing,  in  the  contest  with  Kirke,  as  by  his  sound 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


389 


and  well-regulated  order  of  intellect,  which  would  be  recollected 
to  his  advantage. 

With  these,  to  him,  empty  and  useless  panegyrics,  Evelyn  was 
obliged  to  retire  to  his  hut.  Unable  to  make  personal  inquiries 
in  Derry,  he  wrote,  the  moment  he  could  sit  down,  the  letter  he 
had  at  first  planned.  As  he  folded  it,  the  desperate  thought 
occurred  of  abandoning  the  camp,  by  stealth,  and  still  satisfying 
himself  in  the  speediest  way.  But  the  charge  and  punishment 
of  desertion  stared  him  in  the  face  ;  and  honor,  the  last  senti¬ 
ment  that,  amidst  a  crowd  of  misfortunes,  deserts  the  bosom 
which  it  has  once  solaced  and  ennobled,  frowned  a  disapproval. 
Then  frenzy  began  to  reassert  her  empire  ;  and,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  sword,  he  asked  himself  why  he  did  not,  that  moment,  cut 
his  way  with  it  into  Kirke’s  tent,  and  at  least  assure  himself 
whether  or  not  Eva  was  there.  The  pledge  he  had  given,  the 
line  of  conduct  to  which  he  had  bound  himself,  the  obligation 
imposed  upon  him  by  the  very  defeat  he  had  undergone  ;  all  this, 
assisted  by  the  renewed  promptings  of  honor,  helped,  however, 
to  make  him  master  his  passion.  And,  at  last,  exhausted  and 
supremely  miserable,  he  cast  himself  on  his  rough  couch,  groan¬ 
ing  bitterly. 

In  this  situation  his  notice  was  once  more  challenged  by  a 
heavy  sigh  from  his  young  attendant,  who,  till  then,  had  stood, 
unobserved  by  Evelyn,  some  distance  behind  him.  Still  he  took 
no  immediate  notice  of  this  person  ;  until  at  last  the  boy  changed 
his  place,  and  advancing  with  a  cautious  step,  laid  on  the  table, 
before  his  temporary  master,  such  food  as  Evelyn  did  not  think 
the  camp  afforded.  At  this  he  turned  round,  in  a  half-risen 
posture,  and  looked  sharply  at  his  attendant.  He  stood  near 
the  far  wall  of  the  rude  hovel,  the  collar  of  a  dragoon’s  cloak 
clasped  over  his  chin,  and  hiding  half  his  face,  while  the  broad- 
leafed  hat  of  the  time,  pulled  over  his  brows,  almost  entirely 
disguised  the  other  half.  The  head,  too,  was  turned  aside,  as  if 
confused  by  the  scrutiny  of  which  he  was  the  object.  Altogether, 
an  analysis  of  the  features  was  impossible. 

Evelyn,  after  the  effort  of  a  moment,  gave  up  the  task,  in 
renewed  indifference,  and  once  more  wholly  surrendered  himself 
to  the  misery  of  his  situation.  The  very  presence  of  a  second 
person  became  forgotten.  The  little  supper  remained  untouched  ; 
the  hours  of  night  passed  unnoticed.  It  was  not  till  the  brands 
which  had  been  kindled  on  the  hearth,  and  which  gave  the  only 
light  of  the  apartment,  dickered  out,  one  by  one,  and  at  length 


300 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


almost  entirely  darkened,  that,  starting  into  a  moment’s  recollec¬ 
tion,  as  another  deep-drawn  sigh  reached  his  ear,  and  turning  a 
second  time  round,  Evelyn  beheld  his  sad  and  silent  companion 
standing  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had  last  seen  him,  motionless 
as  a  statue,  and  scarce  perceptible  in  the  increasing  gloom. 

Reproaching  himself  with  cruel  inattention  to  the  comforts  of 
a  being  so  apparently  devoted,  he  then  made  a  hasty  sign,  and 
said  : 

“  Remove  these  things,  boy  ;  eat — retire  to  rest — and  forgive 
my  absence  of  mind.” 

The  lad  slowly  moved  to  the  table  ;  took  away  the  untasted 
food  ;  but,  instead  of  partaking  of  it,  put  it  up  in  a  corner  of 
the  hut ;  and  then,  making  a  rude  obeisance,  left  Evelyn  alone. 

Evelyn  remained  sleepless  and  agitated.  His  conjectures  had 
lately  been  directed  to  the  kind  of  promise  made  by  Schomberg 
to  assist  him  in  a  certain  course  for  the  recovery  of  Eva.  What 
could  that  course  be  ?  Something  the  general  had  said  of  keep¬ 
ing  a  strict  watch  at  home.  Did  that  mean  closely  observing 
Kirke,  on  the  spot  ?  Evelyn  believed  it  did  :  and  then  he  set 
himself  to  plan  the  measure  to  be  taken.  He  could  institute 
inquiries  among  Kirke’s  confidants  and  creatures  ;  he  would  by 
that  means  find  out  Eva’s  real  place  of  durance  ;  when  he  had 
done  so,  he  would  contrive  a  communication  with  her,  and 
arrange  her  escape.  If,  indeed,  she  still  lived,  it  was  his  first 
duty,  now  the  only  private  one  of  his  life,  to  rescue  her  from  a 
continuance  of  the  horror  and  infamy  by  which  she  might  be 
surrounded.  And  if  Eva  were  restored  to  liberty,  vengeance 
could  yet  be  had  on  the  author  of  her  wrongs.  For  the  present, 
Evelyn  was  fixed  in  the  dreadful  conclusion  that  she  was  already 
lost  to  him  forever ;  that  an  immediate  effort  could  not  prevent 
a  foregone  event ;  that  future  retribution,  and  her  eventual 
restoration  to  liberty,  were  all  he  could  hope  for.  Strange  to 
say,  this  self-wrought  certainty,  even  of  utter  woe,  calmed,  in  a 
degree,  the  sufferer’s  mind  ;  the  future,  unconnected  with  Eva, 
began  to  be  sullenly  canvassed.  And — oh,  shame  to  the  human 
heart ! — wars  and  enterprises,  and  the  haughty  front  of  ambition, 
began  to  suggest  a  stern  tolerance  of  life  ;  and  the  new  honors 
to  which  Evelyn  had  just  been  appointed,  were,  for  the  first 
time,  recollected.  All  in  one  short  night  ?  Ay,  all  in  one  short 
night !  Such  is  the  human  heart. 

An  hour  might  have  elapsed  after  the  disappearance  of  the 
singular  attendant,  when  Evelyn  heard  a  stealthy  step  at  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


391 


door  of  his  hut.  Grasping  his  sword,  he  lay  quiet  to  note  whom 
the  intruder  might  be  ;  when,  by  the  light  of  the  late  moon, 
which  shone  brightly  through  the  doorway,  he  again  saw  the 
lad,  cautiously  entering,  and  looking  earnestly  towards  his  couch, 
as  if  to  see  whether  he  slept  or  waked.  Now  more  than  ever 
interested,  Evelyn,  remaining  on  his  guard,  gave  symptoms  of 
deep  sleep,  and  still  watched  the  midnight  visitor. 

The  figure  stepped  very  slowly,  and  half  bent  with  caution, 
across  the  rough  floor  ;  gained  the  front  of  his  couch,  stooped 
over  Evelyn,  looked  long  in  his  face,  and  then  stepping  back, 
drew  a  rude  dagger.  Evelyn  was  about  to  spring  up,  but 
another  moment  corrected  the  impulse.  The  attendant  drew 
the  weapon  only  to  lay  it  on  the  floor,  where,  finally,  he 
stretched  himself,  with  many  sighs,  and  continued  caution  of 
manner,  and  muffling  himself  in  his  cloak,  lay  motionless  and 
silent  at  the  feet  of  his  chosen  master. 

Evelyn  hastily  concluding  that  his  brother  officer  had  con¬ 
siderately  appointed  this  person  to  watch  over  him  in  his  afflic¬ 
tion,  took  no  further  notice.  Towards  morning,  he  was  surprised 
into  a  fitful  slumber.  A  trumpet-call  awoke  him  ;  and  looking 
to  the  foot  of  his  couch,  the  attendant  was  gone. 

The  shrill  reveille  continued  to  send  its  summoning  voice 
abroad.  Evelyn  hastily  arose,  and  found  the  whole  force  in 
motion  ;  some  striking  the  tents,  some  forming  into  marching 
order.  Apprehensive  that  he  had  delayed  too  long  from  Schom- 
berg,  he  hurried  towards  the  marshal’s  tent,  chiding  and  despis¬ 
ing  the  sluggish  spirit  that,  notwithstanding  an  enduring  cause 
for  watchfulness,  could  have  betrayed  him  into  sleep. 

His  anxious  attendant  of  the  preceding  night  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen  ;  but  Evelyn,  meeting  the  brother  officer,  whom  he 
believed  had  appointed  that  person  to  wait  on  him,  offered  his 
thanks  for  the  considerate  courtesy,  and  was  informed  that  the 
lad  himself  deserved  most  acknowledgment,  as  he  had  been 
allowed  to  serve  Evelyn  at  his  own  particular  instance. 

Scarce  afforded  time  to  wonder  at  such  a  circumstance, 
Evelyn,  seeing  Schomberg  in  his  saddle  at  a  little  distance, 
spurred  to  join  him.  The  white-headed  general  bade  him  good¬ 
morning,  with  continued  cordiality  ;  and,  in  a  short  time,  the 
army  was  on  its  route  to  Newry. 

The  distance  was  but  a  short  day’s  march  ;  yet,  owing  to  the 
increased  badness  of  the  roads,  the  difficulties  and  distresses  of 
Schomberg’s  troops  thickened  on  the  way.  The  Enniskilleners, 


S92 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


indeed,  who  formed  his  advance,  made  comparatively  light  of  a 
succession  of  vicissitudes  and  inconveniences  to  which  they  had 
been  accustomed.  The  blue  and  white  Dutch  foot-guards,  too, 
his  own  regiment  of  horse,  and  the  French  regiments  of  La 
Mellonier,  Du  Cambon,  and  La  Caillemotte,  bore  their  mishaps 
like  veteran  troops,  to  whom  patience  and  perseverance  were 
familiar.  But  to  the  English  portion  of  the  numerous  army, 
mostly  made  up  of  new  levies,  unaccustomed  to  the  front  of 
war,  in  an  enemy’s  country,  and  just  ravished  from  the  easy  life 
and  good  things  of  old  England,  the  march  was  dispiriting  and 
disastrous. 

When,  after  much  pause  and  straggling  on  the  road,  the 
army  got  a  sight  of  Newry,  hoping  for  rest  and  refreshment 
within  it,  their  flagging  spirits  gained  no  relief  from  beholding 
the  town  in  flames,  it  haviug  been  just  fired  and  abandoned  by 
the  enemy  and  inhabitants  Schomberg  entered  the  deserted 
and  crumbling  streets  in  great  indignation  and  chagrin  ;  affect¬ 
ing  to  regard  as  barbarous  a  mode  of  warfare  that  he  knew 
well  was  iu  high  repute  among  the  more  polished  destroyers  of 
the  Continent,  and  which  has  since  told  with  effect  in  our  own 
improved  age.  He  sent  after  the  enemy  a  high-toned,  gasconad¬ 
ing  message,  expressive  of  his  horror  at  such  proceedings,  and 
threatening  them  with  terrible  retaliations,  unauthorized,  as  he 
also  well  knew,  by  the  laws  of  war,  or  by  the  nature  of  the 
offence.  But,  up  to  this  time,  it  was  the  error  of  all  invaders  of 
Ireland,  to  imagine  that  the  fair  (if  they  are  ever  fair)  usages 
of  war  might  occasionally  be  outraged  towards  her,  and  that 
her  native  energies  and  national  mind  might  be  cowed  by  an 
empty  threat. 

Notwithstanding  the  mishaps  and  privations  of  the  army,  for 
the  country  through  which  they  had  lately  passed  was  a  desert  ; 
notwithstanding  the  complaints  and  lamentations  of  the  men, 
Newry  was  no  place  to  rest  in  ;  and  Schomberg  speedily  left  ifc 
to  follow  the  men  to  Dundalk.  And  now  came  a  climax  to  the 
sufferings  of  which  the  army  had  previously  encountered  but  a 
foretaste.  The  road,  falling  down  towards  the  coast,  lay  through 
bogs  and  marshes,  or  over  barren  hills.  At  every  step,  the  sol 
diers  stuck  in  mud,  or  floundered  through  bog-water,  scarce  able 
to  afford  each  other  assistance  to  the  next  dry  perch  of  land  ;  in 
many  cases  abandoning  their  arras,  accoutrements,  or  horses,  and 
only  anxious  to  attend  to  self-preservation.  The  heavy  Septern* 
ber  rains,  too,  began  to  pour  down,  to  accumulate  the  difficulties 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


393 


and  perils  of  the  way.  And  still  to  heighten  their  distress,  pro¬ 
visions  grew  scarce,  and  no  fresh  supply  was  to  be  had.  Upon 
every  side  reigned  solitude  and  famine.  The  Protestant  farmers 
had  quitted  the  country,  after  Hamilton’s  success  at  Dromore 
and  Hillsborough,  the  previous  spring  ;  the  Catholics  now  fled 
at  the  approach  of  Schomberg.  So  that  the  cattle  had  been 
driven  away,  by  one  party  or  the  other,  or  lay  slaughtered  and 
putrified  in  the  fields,  or  by  the  road-side  ;  while  the  harvest  of 
the  present  year  had  been  cut  down  and  was  rotting  on  the 
ground.  Not  a  living  thing  was  to  be  seen.  In  the  thatch  of 
the  cabins  encountered  on  the  disastrous  march,  crucifixes  were 
placed  over  the  doorways,  doubtless  in  the  spirit  of  an  appeal  to 
Christian  enemies,  to  spare  from  burning  and  destroying  the 
roofs  abandoned  to  their  mercy,  yet  thus  deemed  to  be  protected 
by  the  symbol  of  a  common  faith.  But  not  always,  alas !  did 
the  rancor  of  mere  sectarian  hatred  acknowledge  that  symbol  of 
sufficient  efficacy  to  restrain,  or  the  spirit  of  that  appeal  of  suf¬ 
ficient  power  to  save.  While,  in  another  view,  such  vestiges  of 
men  called  up,  in  the  minds  of  the  new  soldiers,  a  stronger  sense 
of  the  solitude  which  they  served  but  to  illustrate,  and  struck  a 
deeper  terror  into  the  hearts  of  those  who  had  just  come  from 
scenes  of  joyous  life  and  smiling  plenty,  to  encounter  the  miser¬ 
able  contrast  by  which  they  were  at  present  assailed. 

Evelyn  had  discouraged,  as  directly  as  was  befitting  a  person 
in  his  relative  situation,  this  precipitate  march  of  Schomberg 
through  an  enemy’s  country,  bare  of  supplies,  naturally  difficult, 
and  with  an  army  unused  to  such  operations.  But  Schomberg, 
while  he  eagerly  sought  information,  disregarded  every  thing  like 
advice.  It  appeared  to  Evelyn,  that,  for  once  in  his  life,  at 
least,  the  old  campaigner  had  acted  with  more  haste  than  speed, 
more  energy  than  wisdom,  more  confidence  in  himself  than  pru¬ 
dential  respect  for  the  talents  of  the  enemy. 

Now,  however,  as  the  fatigued  army  approached  Dundalk, 
Evelyn  began  to  hope  that  things  might  turn  up  for  the  best. 
Here  Schomberg  might  rest  and  refresh  his  men  ;  meet  his  ar¬ 
tillery  and  stores  ;  and  afterwards  advance,  at  his  leisure,  through 
an  easier  country,  to  look  for  the  Irish  force.  The  place,  though 
like  Newry  abandoned,  had  not  like  it  been  fired  ;  and  this 
helped  to  improve  the  future  prospects. 

But  Evelyn  miscalculated.  Dundalk  had  not  been  burnt 
down,  merely  because  those  who  had  the  arrangement  of  the 
question  did  not  think  such  a  proceeding  necessary.  Schomberg 


394 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


and  bis  army  had  been  decoyed  into  it,  and  that  was  enough. 
After  waiting  some  time  for  the  little  fleet  he  expected,  along 
the  coast,  from  Belfast,  and  at  length  witnessing  its  arrival, 
Schomberg  proposed  to  march  on  Drogheda,  where,  at  the  dis¬ 
tance  of  only  about  eighteen  miles,  the  main  strength  of  the 
Irish  army,  amounting  to  twenty  thousand,  seemed  to  await  him. 
But,  at  the  first  step,  he  found  himself  shut  in  ;  the  only  two 
passes  by  which  he  could  advance  being  effectually  secured  by 
Sarsfield,  Rosen,  and  Hamilton.  With  nothing  but  a  superior 
force — his  present  one  being  only  about  equal  to  the  enemy — 
could  he  venture  to  push  forward.  As  a  strong  re-enforcement 
of  Danes  had  been  promised  him,  he  sat  down  where  he  was, 
intrenching  himself,  to  await  their  arrival. 

His  position  was  strong.  Fortifying  Dundalk,  and  throwing 
some  troops  into  it,  his  front  faced  the  west,  protected  by  the 
river  between  him  and  the  enemy  ;  on  the  east  rose  the  Newry 
mountains  ;  on  the  south  was  a  boggy  valley,  falling  down  to 
the  sea  ;  on  the  north  were  other  bogs  and  mountains.  Thus 
placed,  he  could  entertain  no  fears  of  being  attacked  in  his  iu- 
trenchments  ;  while  he  was  hemmed  in,  he  was  also  kept  safe. 
But  here  ended  the  advantages  of  his  situation  :  here,  too,  its 
disadvantages  began.  The  ground  upon  which  he  hutted  the 
greater  part  of  his  army,  though  admirable  for  self-defence 
against  a  human  foe,  was,  in  itself,  the  worst  antagonist  they 
could  have  encountered.  Low,  damp,  barren,  and  now  satu¬ 
rated  with  the  rains  that  every  day  grew  heavier,  its  baneful 
effects  soon  began  to  be  visible  among  the  plump  recruits  who 
formed,  as  has  been  seen,  the  majority  of  Schomberg’s  force. 
The  scarcity  of  provisions  accumulated  the  distress  ;  and  while 
hundreds  perished  with  contagious  diseases,  the  clamors  of  the 
survivors  rose  loud. 

Schomberg  sent  pressing  requests  to  William  for  the  promised 
re-enforcements,  and  received,  in  answer,  as  pressing  injunctions 
to  break  from  his  intrenchments,  and  offer  battle.  His  rejoinders  , 
were,  however,  consistent  in  preferring  his  own  plan.  While 
preparing  his  dispatches  for  England,  he  occasionally  did  Evelyn 
the  honor  of  selecting  him  as  an  amanuensis,  and  of  communi¬ 
cating  to  him  some  of  his  opinions.  About  the  middle  of  Octo¬ 
ber,  after  repeated  instructions  had  come  from  William,  and 
while  disease,  hunger,  death,  and  clamor  abounded  among  the 
English  lines,  those  of  the  Enniskilleners  and  foreigners  re¬ 
maining  comparatively  at  ease,  in  every  way,  the  old  com- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


395 


mander  was,  on  a  particular  night,  unusually  confidential  with 
Evelyn. 

His  master,  King  William,  he  said,  labored  under  the  misap¬ 
prehensions  with  which,  partly  from  unwise  statements  given  by 
colonial  Irishmen,  he  had,  himself,  entered  upon  this  campaign. 
He  despised  an  Irish  enemy  too  much,  and  reckoned  on  taking 
them  at  more  odds  than  the  game  seemed  to  allow.  The  king 
had  supposed  enough  done  when  he  appointed  him,  Schomberg, 
to  command  an  army  of-  young  English  peasants — very  nearly, 
indeed,  on  a  par,  in  point  of  discipline,  with  the  wild  Irish  they 
were  sent  to  oppose,  but  unable  to  cope  with  the  difficulties  of 
climate,  season,  country,  and  starvation,  to  which  the  rebel 
kerne  were  accustomed,  and  took  like  a  second  nature.  The 
general  applauded  the  fortitude  and  constancy  of  his  other 
troops  ;  but  as  for  the  young  English  yeomen,  the  very  superior 
advantages  of  their  life  at  home  unfitted  them  for  so  venture¬ 
some  a  campaign  at  so  short  a  notice.  Excellent  soldiers  they 
would,  after  a  little  time,  have  doubtless  become,  provided  they 
could  have  been  well  victualled  every  day.  But,  continued 
Schomberg,  with  some  knowledge  of  Shakspeare,  while  speaking 
of  his  own  countrymen  : 

“  They  want  tlieir  porridge,  and  their  fat  bull  beeves ; 

Either  they  must  be  dieted  like  mules. 

And  have  their  provender  tied  to  their  throats, 

Or  piteous  they  will  look  like  drowned  mice.” 

It  was  also  forgotten,  the  old  marshal  continued,  that  Irish 
officers  might  arrive  at  some  military  tactics,  while  the  French 
officers  by  their  side  were,  he  protested  his  “  goot  Grot,”  not  to  be 
undervalued  on  any  account.  Finally,  Schomberg  engaged  Evelyn 
to  copy  a  dispatch  for  William,  which  contained  this  passage  : 

“  If  your  majesty  was  well  aware  of  the  state  of  your  army, 
and  that  of  the  enemy,  the  nature  of  the  country,  and  the  situ¬ 
ation  of  the  two  camps,  I  do  not  believe  you  would  incline  to 
risk  an  attack.  If  we  do  not  succeed,  your  majesty’s  army 
would  be  lost  without  reserve.  I  make  use  of  that  term  ;  for  I 
do  believe,  that  if  once  put  into  disorder  it  could  not  be  re-estab¬ 
lished.” 

Thus,  for  some  time,  Schomberg  passively  submitted  to  the 
destructive  consequences  of  his  position,  in  daily  hope  of  a 
re-enforcement,  only  satisfied  that  the  enemy  would  not  attack 
him  Nor  was  he  disappointed.  The  French  and  Irish  officers 


396 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


were  content  to  let  his  army  waste  away  with  famine,  dysentery, 
and  other  afflictions  too  loathsome  to  indicate.  Once,  indeed, 
before  the  date  of  the  last  dispatch  mentioned,  King  James, 
against  the  unanimous  advice  of  his  generals,  drew  his  force 
from  Drogheda,  advanced  and  encamped  within  cannon-shot  of 
Schomberg,  challenged  him,  for  some  time,  to  come  out,  and  was 
guilty  of  the  vain-glorious  bravado  of  crossing  the  river  in 
Schomberg’s  front,  with  a  wing  of  his  army,  and  some  field-pieces, 
and  in  every  way  renewing  the  provocations  to  battle.  But  the 
matter  ended  as  he  must,  or  ought  to  have  known  it  would  end — 
Schomberg  let  him  go  back  as  he  came. 

Meantime,  while  the  great  question  remained  undecided,  some 
secondary  affairs  were  engaged  in,  on  both  sides.  The  Ennis- 
killeners,  commanded  by  Lloyd,  their  “  little  Cromwell,”  and 
accompanied  by  Evelyn,  made  excursions  from  the  intrenehments, 
and  on  one  occasion  defeated  a  body  of  the  enemy,  and  drove  in 
some  cattle  to  the  relief  of  their  famishing  and  powerless  breth¬ 
ren.  Afterwards  they  made  a  long  forced  march,  accompanied 
by  some  of  Schomberg’s  dragoons,  and  a  French  detachment,  to 
relieve  Siigo,  on  which  Sarsfield,  after  reducing  Jamestown,  had 
moved,  and  which  was  defended  by  a  Dutch  and  a  French  general. 
But  here  they  were  routed,  and  suffered  much,  having  been  first 
out-manoeuvred.  After  a  gallant  defence  of  the  fort  by  St. 
Sauvier,  this  strong  and  important  place  also  remained  in 
Sarsfield’s  hands. 

Tiius,  it  may  be  said,  ended  Schomberg’s  disastrous  campaign. 
Towards  the  middle  of  November,  he  re-embarked  his  cannon  for 
Belfast.  James  then  broke  up  his  camp,  and  retired  southward 
to  Dublin,  leaving  his  adversary  also  free  to  march  northward, 
in  quest  of  winter-quarters  ;  a  liberty  of  which  he  was  not  tardy 
in  availiug  himself. 

When  the  tents  and  huts  were  uncovered,  the  whole  ground 
appeared  like  a  hospital  ;  and  Schomberg  found  that,  in  every 
vvay,  his  army  had  decreased  one-half 

Ere  he  began  his  retreat  northward,  he  appointed  some 
officers,  English,  foreign,  and  Irish,  to  carry  dispatches  to  Wil¬ 
liam,  as  well  for  the  purpose  of  requesting  anew  the  Danish  re- 
enforcement,  as  of  justifying  his  conduct  to  the  grumbling  English 
parliament,  who,  unable  to  comprehend,  on  any  legitimate 
ground,  the  failure  of  their  army  in  Ireland,  charged  Schomberg 
with  all  the  blame. 

Amongst  the  native  officers  named  in  this  mission  was  Evelyn 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


397 


The  appointment  came  at  the  very  moment  when,  after  months 
of  undiminished  suspense  and  torture,  he  had  hoped  at  last,  in 
furtherance  of  his  private  concerns,  to  be  left  master  of  his  own 
actions. 

During  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the  camp,  Evelyn  failed  not  to 
employ  every  available  means  in  endeavoring  to  ascertain 
whether  or  not  Kirke  kept  a  lady  concealed  in  his  tent.  His 
secret  inquiries  either  ended  in  dissatisfaction,  or  else  led  him  to 
believe  that  his  suspicions  were,  in  this  instance,  unfounded. 
Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  campaign  he  became  assured,  that 
if  Eva  remained,  indeed,  under  Kirke’s  control,  or,  if  she  lived 
at  all,  some  other  retreat  had  been  chosen  for  her.  After  such 
a  conclusion,  he  grew  intensely  anxious  to  commence  inquiries  in 
person  ;  but,  while  attached  to  Schomberg,  on  active  service, 
this  was  impossible.  Baffling,  as  well  as  he  could,  the  agony 
and  uncertainty  which  filled  his  bosom,  Evelyn  awaited  the  end 
of  the  campaign,  again  to  request  leave  of  absence.  Now,  at 
the  very  moment  hope  had  promised  as  auspicious,  he  again  saw 
himself  cut  off  from  all  effectual  exertion  in  the  matter  that  lay 
nearest  his  heart,  and  most  concerned  his  existence.  Decline  the 
appointment  he  durst  not.  Pride,  honor,  spirit,  duty,  consistency, 
would  not  permit  such  a  course.  Social  degradation,  if  not 
actual  punishment,  would  attend  it.  And  he  could  do  no  more 
than  venture  to  remind  Schomberg  of  his  private  situation,  and 
respectfully  solicit  him  to  attend  to  it  in  his  absence. 

It  occurred  to  Evelyn,  also,  to  take  advantage  of  the  devoted¬ 
ness  manifested  towards  him  by  the  young  person  in  the  camp  at 
Loughbrickland.  He  concluded,  that  such  sincere  sympathy  as 
that  unknown  individual  had  shown  towards  his  afflictions,  might 
readily  be  turned  into  zeal  in  his  service.  But  he  called  to  mind 
that,  for  some  time,  the  lad  had  not  waited  ou  him  ;  that,  since 
the  march  from  Loughbrickland,  he  had  not  come  within  his 
view  more  than  once  or  twice  ;  first,  immediately  after  the  evac¬ 
uation  of  Newry,  and  a  second  time,  on  taking  up  a  position  at 
Dundalk  :  on  both  occasions,  during  the  confusion  and  distress 
that  prevailed,  Evelyn  had  paid  him  little  regard.  Now  he 
made  inquiries  after  him,  and,  in  some  self-reproach  at  his  contin 
ued  neglect  of  a  being  apparently  so  mild,  attentive,  and  affec 
tionate,  learned  that,  at  the  first  breaking  out  of  the  infectiou 
diseases  of  the  camp,  he  had  become  ill  ;  was  afterwards  trans 
ported,  with  a  number  of  sick,  to  Belfast,  and,  at  present,  was 
probably  dead. 


398 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Upon  the  last  night  of  Schomberg’s  sojourn  at  Dundalk, 
Evelyn  prepared  for  his  voyage  to  England.  A  vessel  awaited 
him  and  his  brother  officers  in  Carlingford  Bay.  Opening  the 
valise  which  held  the  few  things  necessary  for  travel,  and  what¬ 
ever  valuable  little  matters  he  did  not  choose  to  leave  behind 
him,  he  was  surprised  and  grieved  at  not  being  able  to  find  some 
early  pledges  received  from  Eva — a  ring,  a  lock  of  hair,  and 
such  remembrances.  He  tossed  the  contents  of  his  valise  over 
and  over  ;  he  ransacked  every  crevice  and  corner  ;  they  were 
not  forthcoming.  He  must  have  lost  them,  during  the  hurried 
marches  from  place  to  place  !  His  eye  was  caught  by  a  sealed 
note,  pinned  to  the  inside  of  the  valise.  Snatching  it,  he  recog  • 
nized  the  handwriting  of  Eva  on  the  superscription,  which  wan 
directed  to  him.  He  tore  it  open,  and  a  ring  fell  out  of  it,  as. 
his  feet — Eva’s  marriage  ring. 

The  billet  ran  thus  : 

“We  are  separated  forever ;  your  own  course  makes  this 
indispensable.  But  apart  even  from  your  conduct,  ruin  and 
degradation  have  come  between  us.  Think  not  of  me.  I  am 
handed  over  to  a  fate  relentless  as  you  will  find  it  impenetrable. 
Be  happy.  I  will  pray  that  you  may  be  so.  Farewell. — Eva/’ 

No  date  was  added.  It  might  have  remained  in  the  valise 
since  his  arrival  at  Dundalk.  But,  no  matter  when  or  where 
written,  it  at  last  brought  to  a  horrid  certainty  Evelyn’s  worst 
apprehensions  on  Eva’s  account.  The  “  ruin  and  degradation” 
that  had  forever  separated  them  pointed  to  but  one  possible 
meaning,  and  that  coincided  with  all  his  former  suspicions.  No 
further  could  he  calculate.  He  flung  himself,  despairing,  on  the 
ground. 

In  a  short  time  came  the  question,  what  conduct  of  his 
seemed  to  make  this  “  misery  indispensable  ?”  Tush,  he  an¬ 
swered  himself,  here  is  but  a  pretence  to  divert  my  mind  from 
the  real  cause.  And  to  what  fate,  “  relentless  as  it  would  prove 
impenetrable,”  had  the  wretched  Eva  consigned  herself  ?  Death  ! 
replied  Evelyn’s  heart.  She  could  not  survive  her  fair  name  ; 
and  the  question  was  left  in  doubt  only  to  save  him  an  over¬ 
whelming  pang. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  grasped  his  sword.  He  wa 
rushing,  bareheaded,  to  seek  Kirke  in  his  tent,  and  cut  him 
down  on  the  spot.  Past  circumstances  crowded  on  his  recol 
lection,  sickened  his  heart,  and  arrested  his  furious  career.  He 
felt  at  a  glance  all  the  controlling  reasons  before  enumerated. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


399 


And  now  came  the  additional  thought,  that  if  Eva  had  indeed 
perished,  all  positive  proof  of  Kirke’s  guilt  must  thereby  be 
removed,  and  all  justification  of  revenge  torn  from  him. 

How  came  the  note  where  he  had  found  it  ?  At  the  first 
difficulty  in  answering,  his  mind  abandoned  the  matter  as  insig¬ 
nificant  ;  once  more  he  relapsed  into  despair.  Some  persons 
clanged,  heavily  armed,  into  his  hut.  They  called  to  him  ;  they 
shook  him  by  the  shoulder  ;  they  told  him  the  boat  waited  to 
coast  him  to  the  vessel,  which  would  speedily  spread  her  can¬ 
vas  for  England,  in  a  fair,  though  high  wind.  The  dash  and 
roar  of  a  sea,  canopied  by  the  blackest  night,  and  scoured  by 
tempest,  glanced  across  his  thoughts.  He  arose  ;  he  said  he 
w  as  quite  ready  ;  and  so  embarked  for  England. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Allowing  his  motions  to  be  guided  by  his  friends,  Evelyn 
accompanied  them,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  morning  which  com¬ 
pleted  their  journey,  in  search  of  Mr.  Walker,  who,  it  was  be¬ 
lieved,  would  be  a  useful  guide  and  prompter  in  furthering  their 
present  business,  and  initiating  them  into  the  mysteries  of  a 
court,  at  which,  if  fame  erred  not,  he  had  for  some  time  been 
flatteringly  accepted. 

Indeed,  no  name  was  now  more  popular  in  London  than  that 
of  Mr.  Walker.  He  had  just  published  his  Diary  of  the  Siege 
of  Derry,  in  which  the  reader  may  be  assured  he  was  his  own 
hero.  It  had  yet  encountered  none  of  the  discredit  soon  after 
cast  on  it  by  men  of  his  own  party,  who  deemed  it  their  duty, 
by  publications  also  in  London,  to  strip  the  reverend  egotist  of 
some  plumes  which  he  had  dexterously  borrowed  from,  it  was 
asserted,  braver  and  honester  colleagues.  King  William  had,  at 
the  instance  of  Burnet,  presented  him  with  five  thousand  pounds, 
and — the  bishopric  of  the  city  which  he  had  preserved  for  his 
master,  against  the  cautions  of  its  former  bishop,  not  found  so 
serviceable.  Ministers  of  state,  lights  of  the  Church,  and  ladies 
of  illustrious  title,  joined  in  tneir  attentions  and  compliments  to 
the  right  reverend  captain  in  God.  Tillotson  eulogized  him  in  a 


400 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


letter  to  Lady  Russell.  In  a  word,  his  royal  patron  alone 
(though  the  fact  was  not  then  suspected)  was  the  sole  person 
who,  after  all  his  achievements,  thought  Mr.  Walker — a  trouble¬ 
some  fool. 

Evelyn  accompanied  his  friends  to  seek  this  hero  of  nine  days 
at  the  address  in  the  Strand,  which,  ere  their  departure  from  Ire¬ 
land,  they  had  obtained  as  his.  Here  they  met  a  new  proof  of 
the  flattering  attentions  paid  to  their  countryman.  He  was  not  at 
home  ;  but  an  acquaintance,  calling  at  the  same  time,  informed 
the  Irish  deputation  that  he  would  most  likely  be  found  at  the 
house  of  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  sitting  for  his  portrait,*  at  the 
request  of  some  admiring  friends,  to  that  humbug  of  his  day. 
Thither  our  party  repaired.  Mr.  Walker  had  just  left,  and  was 
perhaps  gone  to  Whitehall,  to  attend  the  king’s  levee.  Arriving 
at  Whitehall,  they  learned  that,  early  that  very  morning,  the 
court  had  been  removed  to  Kensington,  to  the  house  just  pur¬ 
chased  by  William  from  his  pompous  minister,  Nottingham. 
Doubtless,  the  Bishop  of  Londonderry  had  followed  it. 

To  Kensington,  then,  the  deputation  repaired.  Crossing  St. 
James’  Park  and  the  Green  Park,  Evelyn  and  his  friends  rode 
through  what  was  then  the  open  country,  to  the  new  seat  of 
royalty.  At  the  village  all  was  bustle,  rattle,  and  life.  Noble 
persons  of  both  sexes  promenaded  the  then  scanty  streets  in  search 
of  inconvenient  lodgings,  or  dashed  by  in  their  carriages  ;  the 
Dutch  guards  were  everywhere  seen  in  motion  ;  the  confounded 
but  delighted  inhabitants  hurried  about,  evidently  not  yet  at  ease 
amid  the  influx  of  greatness  with  which  they  were  so  suddenly 
called  to  hold  communication.  Already  might  be  heard  the 
clink  of  trowels,  and  the  clattering  of  laborers,  busy  at  the  nod 
of  the  enterprising  builders  of  1689  in  erecting  new  houses  for 
the  new  visitants,  and  even  so  soon  engaged  in  commencing  those 
respectable  additions  to  the  town,  which,  continued  through 
other  reigns,  in  proportion  for  the  demand  thus  began  for  them, 

*  A  good  print  of  this  portrait  may  be  found  between  two  unautlion- 
tic  catchpennies  of  the  same  era,  in  the  British  Museum.  A  supposed 
copy  of  it  was,  in  1828,  the  property  of  a  picture-trading  Dublin  con¬ 
noisseur,  who,  once  a  year,  let  (or  hired)  it  to  certain  persons,  by  whom 
it  was  carried  to  a  Dublin  tavern  to  witness  a  dinner  and  debauch  got 
up  in  honor  of  the  original.  Another  engraving  is  shown  in  Derry, 
by  a  descendant  of  Walker,  as  resembling  him.  But  it  is  spurious, 
like  two  out  of  the  three  already  mentioned,  as  preserved  under  the 
care  of  our  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Smith,  of  the  print-room,  British 
Museum.-— B.  O’H. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


401 


at  last  made  Kensington  a  considerable  place.  By  virtue  of 
their  mission,  Schomberg’s  deputation  easily  passed  the  outpost 
guards  of  the  new  palace,  and  arrived  in  front  of  the  grand 
entrance,  which  was  in  the  courtyard  on  the  west.  Many  addi¬ 
tions  have  since  been  made  to  the  old  pile  ;  but  the  buildings 
which  then  surrounded  this  yard,  and  those  at  present  forming 
the  south  front,  seem  to  have  been  the  only  considerable  parts 
of  the  original  structure. 

Directing,  in  the  first  instance,  their  inquiries  after  Mr.  Walker, 
our  party  learned  that  he  had,  that  morning,  presented  himself 
at  the  palace,  but  not  having  obtained  an  audience,  was  now, 
most  probably,  walking  about  the  gardens.  The  deputation 
separated  into  different  bodies,  to  look  out  for  their  accredited 
agent,  and  Evelyn  was,  perhaps  designedly,  left  alone,  his  fits  of 
abstraction  having  all  along  rendered  him  a  useless,  and  even  a 
troublesome  companion.  He  sauntered  slowly  through  shades 
and  openings,  little  wildernesses,  and  noble  walks,  even  then  so 
well  and  artfully  arranged  and  contrasted,  as  to  give  full  promise 
of  a  plaisaunce,  as  much  superior  to  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
or  the  grounds  of  St.  Cloud,  as  they  were  and  are  to  the  scat¬ 
tered  heap  of  red  brick  of  which  it  is  a  shame  to  make  them  the 
accompaniment. 

But  little  delight  had  this  beautiful  scene  for  the  heart  of 
Evelyn.  He  did  not  admire  ;  he  scarce  looked  at  it.  The  only 
effect  produced  on  him  was  an  unconscious  impression  of  loneli¬ 
ness,  that  assisted  the  melancholy  of  his  mood.  Passing  out  of 
the  secret  and  solitary  haunts  of  the  garden  into  its  more  open 
and  frequented  promenades,  his  eye  became,  however,  diverted 
by  the  groups  of  courtly  persons,  clad  in  richest  attire,  glancing 
along  the  walks,  or  turning  aside  from  them,  or  moving  by  the 
edge  of  a  considerable  sheet  of  water  near  at  hand.  Nobles 
aud  noble  dames,  generals,  law-officers,  and  other  suitors,  like 
himself  and  the  dignitary  he  came  to  seek,  were  all  awaiting 
(what  scarce  any  expected)  a  sight  and  a  word  of  the  singularly 
unapproachable  monarch  whom  they  had  lately  called  to  the 
throne  of  their  country  ;  but  who,  by  his  rudeness,  along  with 
other  matters,  already  began  to  make  them  regret  their  election. 

Inconvenienced  by  the  sight  of  so  many  persons,  Evelyn  hast¬ 
ily  returned  to  seek  the  less  public  paths  of  the  garden.  He 
now  found  himself  in  a  thicldy-planted  shrubbery,  where  the 
dark  evergreen-trees  made  a  shade,-  although  it  was  winter. 
Continuing  his  way,  he  suddenly  emerged  into  an  open  semicir- 


402 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


cular  space,  at  the  extremity  of  which  was  a  seat,  occupied  by  a 
single  person,  whose  averted  head,  bent  upon  his  arm,  seemed  to 
indicate  a  mood  of  deep  reflection.  This  individual  was  very 
young  ;  his  figure  slight,  his  stature  short,  and  his  dress  foreign. 
The  last  observation  called  up  quick  associations  that  thrilled 
through  Evelyn  ;  exactly  such  a  dress  had  Eva  worn  upon  the 
night  when  she  met  him,  along  with  Esther  and  Edmund,  disguised 
in  male  attire,  outside  the  walls  of  Derry.  Such  had  been,  too, 
her  figure,  in  that  graceful  disguise — such  her  air.  Evelyn’s 
heart  palpitated  ;  he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  ;  he  gazed  stead¬ 
fastly  on  the  stranger,  hoping  that  the  head  might  turn,  and  the 
features  be  submitted  to  his  view.  But  the  figure  remained  a 
long  time  motionless  :  when  at  length  it  moved,  the  face  was 
still  averted  ;  but,  in  this  position,  the  boy  drew  a  sheathed 
dagger  from  his  bosom,  half  bared  it,  looked  at  its  edge,  kissed 
it  fervently,  and  put  it  up  again.  Evelyn  advanced  a  step.  The 
solitary  started,  glanced  one  angry  and  startled  look  at  the  intrud¬ 
er,  darted  into  the  thickets  at  his  back,  and  left  Evelyn  almost 
senseless  with  consternation.  The  features  were  those  of  Eva, 
altered,  indeed,  under  the  influence  of  violent  passion,  and  show¬ 
ing  the  same  new  and  strange  character  he  had  noticed  in  them 
when  she  first  appeared  in  her  masculine  dress.  Still  they  were 
Eva’s. 

Conjecturing,  in  one  flash  of  thought,  that  Eva,  no  matter 
how  at  liberty,  giving  way  to  some  wild  impulse  of  her  romantic 
and  spirited  nature,  called  up  by  her  late  griefs,  had  devoted 
herself  to  a  desperate  achievement,  and  was  here — a  concealed 
dagger  in  her  bosom — to  attempt  it ;  recollecting  her  former 
vague,  though  alarming  conversations,  and  getting  a  full  new 
of  the  danger  and  horror  of  her  predicament,  Evelyn,  after  the 
confusion  of  a  moment,  plunged  into  the  thicket  in  pursuit.  He 
heard  rapid  steps  near  him,  and  for  some  time  was  guided  onward  ; 
but  no  one  met  his  eye.  Branches  of  trees  that  he  broke  through 
were  in  agitation  from  the  quick  passage,  a  moment  before,  of 
some  other  person.  He  still  remained  at  fault.  He  emerged 
from  the  thicket,  and  looked  around  him,  on  one  of  the  broad, 
smooth  gravelled  walks.  No  figure,  such  as  he  was  in  chase  of, 
met  his  glance.  He  rushed  forward,  at  random,  by  the  side  of 
the  lake  before  mentioned,  passing,  without  observation,  detaeficd 
groups  of  people.  A  hand  caught  his  arm  ;  a  familiar  v“ice 
saluted  him  ;  he  turned,  and  knew  his  old  friend,  Qon^x 
Walker. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


403 


*' Your  haste  is  on  my  account,  I  doubt  not,  Captain  Evelyn. 
I  heard  of  your  intended  voyage  ;  here  has  your  name  been  just 
handled,”  said  the  new  dignitary,  inclining  his  head  to  a  person 
with  whom  he  had  stood  in  close  conversation,  and  who,  as  his 
costume  declared,  was  also  high  in  the  Church.  “You  have 
heard  me  allude  to  the  name  of  Dr.  Burnet.  Know  him  now  as 
my  Lord  Bishop  of  Salisbury.” 

Evelyn  made  hurried  obeisance  to  a  man  about  Walker’s  age, 
but  shorter,  and  much  stouter  in  figure,  with  heavy  limbs,  and  a 
commonplace  face,  such  as  might  become  a  busy,  close,  opinion¬ 
ated,  and  moderately  clever  mechanic.  He  looked,  indeed,  a 
plodding  tradesman,  but  no  more.  Nor  did  his  new  silk  apron 
take  from  the  character  with  which  nature  appeared  to  have 
stamped  Dr.  Burnet,  and  which  all  historians  (except  himself) 
are  disposed  to  allow  him. 

“  Tarry  but  a  moment,”  continued  the  Bishop  of  Derry,  “  until 
my  lord  and  I  have  shortly  discussed  our  topic.  Then  I  shall 
inquire  into  your  affair.” 

Evelyn  still  looked  wildly  around,  almost  cursing  the  inter¬ 
ruption,  and  heedless  of  the  words  Burnet  addressed  to  his  old 
friend.  Until  a  sentence,  striking,  by  curious  coincidence,  the 
chord  of  his  distracted  thoughts,  startled  him  into  attention. 

“  I  aver,”  said  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  “  that  no  living  woman 
is  so  well-disposed  to  the  act.” 

Eva,  the  only  living  woman  poor  Evelyn  could  recognize  as 
an  object  of  remark — Eva — and  the  “  act”  he  feared  she  was 
madly  engaged  to  perform,  answered  to  this  observation.  Pale 
and  trembling,  he  prepared  himself  to  listen  to  an  account  of  her 
purposed  detection  and  ruin.  But  a  few  more  sentences  assured 
liim  that  he  only  heard  a  eulogium  (since  preached  and  printed 
by  the  admiring  speaker)  upon  the  eldest  daughter  of  James  II., 
Queen  Mary  of  England. 

“  Her  age  and  rank,”  resumed  the  closet  counsellor  of  a  second 
Goneril,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  as  one  of  his  arms 
seesawed,  awkwardly — “  her  age  and  rank  have  denied  her  much 
opportunity  for  study  ;  yet  she  has  gone  far  that  way.  She  is 
particularly  careful  of  her  time,  which  she  chiefly  directs  between 
her  books.” 

“  Ay,  my  lord  ;  but  touching  her  majesty’s  disposition  to  be¬ 
friend  us,  in  this  matter,”  interrupted  Walker. 

“  Her  needle  and  her  devotion,”  continued  the  imperturbable 
panegyrist.  “  It  were  easy  to  give  amazing  instances  of  hoT 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


404 

understanding,  in  matters  of  divinity.  She  has  so  well  under¬ 
stood  our  disputes  with  the  Church  of  Rome,  that  she  is  capable 
of  managing  debates  in  them,  with  an  equal  degree  of  address 
and  judgmeut.” 

“  And,  therefore,  more  able  and  willing,  doubtless,  to  direct 
to  that  idolatrous  Church,  the  somewhat  torpid  zeal  of  his  dis¬ 
senting  majesty,”  observed  Walker. 

“  Doubtless  ;  and  seeing  how  coldly  our  suggestions  of  whole¬ 
some  constraint  of  the  Popish  superstition  have  been  met  by  her 
royal  consort.  Forasmuch,”  continued  Burnet,  still  quoting 
himself  by  anticipation — “forasmuch  as  I  found,  while  in  Hol¬ 
land,  that  the  main  thing  the  ministers  of  that  country,  ana 
those  who  had  charge  of  his  education,  infused  into  him,  was  an 
abhorrence  of  the  Arminian,  rather  than  of  the  Romish  doctrine. 
Nevertheless,  I  despair  nothing  of  seeing  a  good  impression 
wrought.  Because,”  he  went  on,  getting  into  a  kind  of  Athan- 
asian  sublimity  of  style,  “  the  sovereignty  is  in  her  ;  it  is  also  in 
another.  Her  administration  supplies  the  other’s  absence.  Mon¬ 
archy  here  seems  to  have  lost  its  very  essence  ;  it  being  a  gov¬ 
ernment  by  one.  But  as  the  administration  is  only  in  one  at  a 
time,  so — ” 

A  person  like  a  gentleman  usher  interrupted  the  new  dignitary 
by  a  message  to  him  to  attend  the  queen.  He  gave  a  sign  of 
humble  compliance,  but  stayed  to  finish  his  sentence — 

“  As  the  administration  is  only  in  one  at  a  time,  so  they  are 
more  one  than  espousals  or  a  joint  tenure  of  the  throne — ” 

The  messenger  gave  a  hint  for  dispatch. 

“  Than  espousals,  or  a  joint  tenure  of  the  throne  can  make 
them,”  still  continued  the  eulogist,  as  art  last  he  waddled  off, 
however,  seesawing  the  air,  and  repeating  his  climax  till  he  was 
out  of  hearing. 

“And  there  goes,”  said  Walker,  looking  after  him,  “the 
strange  instrument  whom  it  has  pleased  God  to  use  in  working 
out  the  greatest  deliverance  that  ever  was  allowed  to  a  nation. 
Assisted  by  a  woman  whom,  notwithstanding  his  praises,  every 
father  must  tremble  to  see  guilty  of  the  joy  which  she  evinces  at 
the  downfall  of  a  parent.” 

Having  received  from  Evelyn  an  intimation  of  the  wishes  of 
the  deputation  to  call  on  him  for  an  introduction  to  the  king, 
Mr.  Walker,  as  we  still  prefer  to  designate  him,  declared,  with 
some  vehemence,  that  such  a  service  was  not  to  be  expected  at 
bis  hands,  inasmuch  as  he.  himself,  had  not  yet  enjoyed  an  audi* 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


405 


ence  of  his  majesty.  A  sum  of  money  and  a  Church  appoint¬ 
ment  he  had,  indeed,  received  in  the  king’s  name,  as  some 
recompense  for  what  he  had  done  in  Ireland.  But  all  cordial 
approach  to  William  was  denied. 

Had  Evelyn  been  in  a  mood  to  attend  to  what  he  heard,  this 
must  have  astonished  him,  and  what  followed  still  more  so.  Mr. 
Walker,  rapidly  and  in  evident  warmth,  proceeded  to  say  that 
the  whole  conduct  of  the  new  monarch  impressed  his  zealous 
Protestant  subjects  with  a  fear  that  he  was  arbitrary  in  his 
views,  as  well  as  disagreeable  in  his  private  manners.  Above 
all,  that  he  was  averse  to  the  interests  of  the  established  reli¬ 
gion,  and  indifferent  to  the  encroachment  of  Popery.  While  he 
disgusted  with  his  reserve,  or  his  rudeness,  all  the  great  men  who 
surrounded  him,  giving  up  to  field  sports  the  time  he  refused  to 
them,  William  maintained  in  England  a  Duch  standing  army,  and 
had  been  heard  to  say,  he  would,  and  could  trust  no  other.  And 
in  this  army  were  as  many  Papists,  men  and  officers,  as  James 
had  ever  proposed  to  have  in  his.  He  had  suspended,  as  sum¬ 
marily  as  James,  the  bishops  who  refused  to  lay  down  their  con¬ 
sciences  at  his  feet.  He  had  repeatedly  sought  to  exempt  all 
those  of  his  own  religion  (the  Presbyterian)  from  the  test  oaths  ; 
the  very  attempt  which,  made  in  behalf  of  another  sect,  had 
cost  James  a  crown,  and  gained  it  for  William.  He  had,  at  one 
sweep,  abolished  the  Established  Church  in  Scotland,  and  he  had 
caused  to  be  instituted  an  ecclesiastical  court  of  commission, 
doubtless  in  the  hopes  of  effecting  the  same  thing,  under  name 
of  a  comprehension,  in  England.  He  had  allowed  Holland  to 
interfere  with  the  trade  of  London,  which  was  now  sensibly 
diminished.  He  had,  in  a  season  of  public  debt  and  distress, 
expended  large  sums  on  the  new  palace  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
now  an  additionally  large  one  on  the  purchase  of  Kensington. 
Worst  of  all,  when  certain  zealous  dignitaries,  and  others  of  the 
Established  Church,  had  earnestly  recommended  him  to  bind  up, 
in  a  salutary  fetter  of  new  penal  laws,  the  hands  and  energies  of 
Papists,  he  had  sullenly  refused,  saying,  that  he  came  to  England 
to  assist  Protestantism,  but  not  to  persecute  Roman  Catholics  ; 
at  another  time,  adding  that  he  could  not  pretend  to  screen  the 
Protestants  of  Germany  and  Hungary,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
should  persecute  Catholics  in  England  and  Ireland.  Such  a 
course,  Mr.  Walker  continued,  had  not  been  expected  from  the 
man  who  was  called  from  his  own  country,  solely  for  the  protec¬ 
tion  of  Protestantism  against  Popery,  and  of  English  freedom 


4rOG 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


against  despotic  monarchy.  Men’s  eyes  had,  therefore,  become 
opened  of  late  to  some  other  imperfections  in  the  conduct  of  the 
prince,  who  so  much  disappointed  all.  It  was  now  recollected 
that,  contrary  to  his  solemn  declarations,  he  had  aspired  to  the 
crown  without  waiting  till  it  was  vacant,  or  decreed  to  be  so. 
That  he  had  himself  caused  such  vacancy,  by  treating  his  father- 
in-law  with  insolence,  rigor,  and  great  cruelty,  turning  him  out  of 
his  palace,  and,  in  reality,  terrifying  him  out  of  the  kingdom. 
That  the  reports  countenanced  by  him  of  the  false  birth  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  the  treaty  with  France  to  enslave  England, 
appeared  to  be  false,  and  must  be  esteemed  nothing  more  than 
wicked  rumors,  framed  for  certain  ends.  That,  merely  out  of 
complaisance  to  him,  James  had  been  refused  a  hearing  in  his 
own  defence.  Lastly,  Mr.  Walker  hinted  that  it  became  a 
question,  whether  or  no  legitimate  succession  and  divine  right 
should  have  been  so  speedily  shoved  aside  to  make  room  for  a 
strange  prince,  now  so  little  likely  to  give  satisfaction  ;  and 
whispers  of  intended  resistance,  in  which,  indeed,  he  did  not 
implicate  himself,  actually  escaped  the  lips  of  the  angry,  or  con¬ 
scientious,  churchman. 

Despite  his  abstraction  and  tantalizing  interest  in  a  very  differ¬ 
ent  subject,  Evelyn  was  at  length  overtaken  with  astonishment, 
to  hear  such  details  and  sentiments  from  the  man  who,  only  a 
few  months  before,  had  viewed  and  stated  the  character  and 
merits  of  William  in  a  very  different  light.  He  ventured  to 
hint  his  surprise,  but  his  friend  stopped  him  by  the  remark,  that 
time  and  experience  alone  could  enable  any  one  to  settle  in  the 
truth.  Then,  still  indulging  his  zeal,  candor,  or  disappointment, 
he  found  new  subjects  of  animadversion  in  William’s  flagrant 
neglect  of  Ireland  ;  insinuating  that  some  sensible  men  were  not 
slow  in  attributing,  as  the  cause  for  all  the  mismanagement  in 
that  quarter,  a  plan  to  let  the  country  get  embroiled,  deeper  and 
deeper  ;  that  so,  at  last,  William  and  his  Dutch  followers,  for 
whom  he  could  not  otherwise  provide,  might  have  the  merit  of 
subduing  it,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  monopolizing,  to  the  pre- 
indice  of  loyal  and  more  deserving  Irish  Protestants,  the  addi¬ 
tional  forfeitures  and  confiscations  that  must  take  place  among 
the  properties  of  Irish  Papists.  The  king  had,  indeed,  lately 
mentioned  his  intention  of  going  over  to  finish  the  war  in  person. 
But  little  was  expected  from  that  pledge.  And  Mr.  Walker 
wound  up  by  saying,  that  the  late  defeats  of  the  English  at  sea, 
and  particularly  the  failure  of  Torrington  in  a  descent  upon 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


407 


Cork,  where,  at  the  head  of  the  combined  fleets  of  Holland 
and  England,  he  had  been  discomfited  by  the  French  admiral, 
who  now  infested  the  Channel — that  these  losses  and  disgraces, 
never  encountered  in  any  other  reign,  and  preceded,  in  the  very 
former  reign,  by  brilliant  success,  powerfully  assisted  in  making 
a  great  portion  of  the  national  miud  disgusted  with  its  new 
master. 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Walker  was  interrupted  by  a  stir  among 
a  considerable  body  of  Dutch  horse-guards,  who  were  posted 
round  a  back  entrance  into  the  west  court.  Nearly  at  the  same 
time  a  loud  clatter  of  horses’  feet  was  heard  in  the  court,  accom¬ 
panied  by  a  flourish  of  trumpets. 

“Ay,”  continued  Mr.  Walker,  “there  he  goes,  as  usual,  to 
review  his  camp  at  Hounslow,  or  start  a  deer  in  Windsor  Forest. 
Leaving  unnoticed  the  faithful  and  anxious  subject,  and  the  im¬ 
portant  business  that  vainly  craves  his  attention.” 

Evelyn  became  attracted  by  another  incident.  Soma  of  the 
guards  stationed,  as  has  just  been  said,  at  the  door  which  com¬ 
municated  with  the  garden,  surrounded,  as  if  to  press  back,  an 
individual  who  seemed  anxious  to  pass  into  the  court.  At  a 
second  glance,  Evelyn  recognized  the  slight  figure  and  foreign 
dress  of  the  person  who  so  terribly  interested  him.  Instantly  he 
darted  from  his  friend’s  side  towards  the  spot.  On  his  way,  a 
turn  in  the  path,  round  a  clump  of  trees,  intercepted  his  view  ; 
and  when  he  arrived  near  the  guards  the  stranger  was  gone. 
But  Evelyn  could  hear  them  allude,  in  the  Dutch  language, 
which  he  had  partially  acquired  in  Schomberg’s  Irish  camp,  to 
the  incident  which  so  much  alarmed  him.  The  soldiers  seemed 
to  make  light  of  it  ;  expressing  some  satirical  mirth  at  the  igno¬ 
rance  and  impudence  of  the  unknown  stripling,  who,  out  of  curi¬ 
osity,  or  a  foolish  notion  of  the  importance  of  his  private  affairs, 
could  hope  to  press  himself  on  the  king  at  such  a  moment :  they 
added,  that  from  the  dispatch  of  his  retreat,  it  was  to  be  hoped 
the  repulse  he  had  got  would  teach  him  some  experience. 

As  Evelyn  stood  confused  and  agitated,  his  friends,  accompa¬ 
nied  by  Mr.  Walker,  came  up  to  say  that,  since  the  king  had 
left  the  palace  for  the  day,  it  would  be  useless  to  remain  any 
longer  in  attendance.  But  that  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  had 
iugfc  pledged  himself  to  arrange,  through  the  interest  of  the  Queen, 
a  speedy  audience  for  the  Irish  deputation,  who  should  make  it 
their  business  to  procure  lodgings  in  the  village,  and  contentedly 
and  respectfully  await  the  proper  summons. 


408 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Evelyn  continued  almost  unconscious  of  these  intimations. 
His  friends  noticed  his  unbusiness-like  abstraction,  and  once  more 
he  was  left  by  them  alone  in  the  gardens.  His  eye  turned  round, 
and  his  thoughts  turned  internally,  still  in  search  of  one  sole 
object,  one  sole  explanation.  He  watched  and  lingered  about 
the  paths  and  secret  haunts  of  the  garden,  until  all  else  had  re¬ 
tired,  and  he  found  himself  suspiciously  regarded  by  the  Dutch 
troops,  stationed  as  sentinels  at  different  points.  At  last,  as 
evening  fell,  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  seek  his  friends  in 
the  adjacent  village.  Some  of  them  met  him  by  chance  in  the 
streets,  conveyed  him  to  his  lodgings,  and,  at  his  request,  left 
him  to  his  reflections. 

“  This,”  thought  Evelyn — “this,  then,  is  the  fate  to  which 
she  has  devoted  herself — revenge — blind,  unjust,  and  ruinous 
revenge  1”  He  shuddered  with  a  degree  of  revulsion  to  contem¬ 
plate  a  young  and  unprotected  woman  abandoning  herself  to 
such  a  course.  He  feared  to  tell  himself  what  shape  he  sus¬ 
pected  Eva’s  intentions  to  have  taken.  But  most  of  all  did  he 
fear  to  calculate  the  consequences  of  her  madness. 

Could  there  be  a  doubt  it  was  she  ?  A  rapid  thought  struck 
him  :  the  young  person  in  the  camp  at  Dundalk — could  it  be  he  ? 
He  tried  to  call  back  his  notions  of  the  face  of  that  person. 
He  had  seen  it  but  once,  during  the  struggle  with  Kirke  ;  his 
mind  was  utterly  confused  at  the  moment  ;  his  powers  of  obser¬ 
vation  clouded.  His  glance  had  only  suggested,  in  a  vague 
manner,  that  he  knew  it  before.  Could  he  now  venture  decid¬ 
edly  to  say  that  it  was  not  one  and  the  same  with  the  face  he 
beheld  this  morning  ?  He  would  not  positively  say  so.  If  not, 
it  remained  probable  that  his  mute  attendant,  in  Schoraberg’s 
camp,  and  the  individual  encountered  in  the  gardens,  were  one 
and  the  same.  Thus,  then,  Eva  differently  disguised,  had  twice 
appeared  to  him.  Who  else  could  leave  the  note  where  he  had 
found  it  ?  Here  was  additional  probability.  And  yet,  no  ; 
Evelyn,  although  he  durst  not  fully  assure  himself,  irresistibly 
rejected  these  arguments,  as  soon  as  he  had  built  them  up.  He 
could  not  keep  to  the  belief  that  it  was  Eva  who  had  snatched 
the  dagger  from  Kirke,  and  afterwards  attended  him  in  the  hut. 
In  other  words,  that  the  person,  whose  appearance  and  actions 
now  alarmed  him,  was  that  individual,  in  a  changed  dress  ;  for, 
as  he  began  to  doubt  all  his  powers  of  clear  and  certain  deduc¬ 
tion,  he  at  last  put  to  himself  a  final  question — ought  he  to  be  so 
sure  that  he  had  really  seen  Eva  in  the  gardens  ?  As,  in  a 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


409 


former  instance,  the  confusion  of  his  mind  seemed  to  deny  him  a 
right  to  come  to  positive  assurance. 

Weary  with  uncertainty,  Evelyn  sank  into  repose.  But  the 
next  day  brought  renewed  fears,  and  a  recurrence  to  the  con¬ 
viction  that  it  was,  indeed,  Eva  whom  he  had  met.  Expectation 
01  excitement  could  not  have  left  him  so  open  to  be  deceived  ; 
could  not  have  beguiled  him  into  the  momentary  certainty  that 
features  so  well  known  were  before  him.  A  strangeness  of  char¬ 
acter,  a  new  expression  and  meaning,  there  had,  indeed,  been 
attached  to  them.  But  again  he  brought  to  mind  that  the  same 
effect  had  been  seemingly  wrought  in  Eva’s  face  upon  the  night 
when,  in  a  very  similar  dress,  she  had  met  him  outside  the  walls 
of  Derry  ;  when  he  knew  he  gazed  upon  her,  and  almost  thought 
her  another  person.  Wholly  occupied  by  these  reflections,  and 
anxiously  hoping  that  he  might  once  more  be  afforded  a  more 
satisfactory  interview,  days  and  weeks  dragged  over  Evelyn’s 
head.  At  last  came  a  summons  to  attend  his  friends  to  the 
palace,  in  the  expectation — for  it  was  only  an  expectation — of 
being  admitted  to  an  audience  of  the  king.  Evelyn  passively 
joined  them,  almost  unconscious  of  the  business  in  hand,  and 
completely  ignorant  of  the  State  topics,  the  opinions  and  anec- 
dotes  that,  since  his  arrival  in  England,  had  been  flying  around 
him. 

“  I  should  wish,”  said  Charles  Y.,  “  to  address  my  God  in 
Spanish,  my  mistress  in  Italian,  my  friend  in  French,  my  birds  in 
English,  and  my  horses  in  Dutch.”  And  as  Evelyn,  along  with 
his  companions,  followed  the  Bishops  of  Salisbury  and  Derry 
through  the  guards  that,  without  and  within,  beset  every  avenue 
of  Kensington  Palace,  he  was  well  disposed,  so  far  as  he  attended 
to  the  matter,  to  admit  the  reasonableness  of  the  wish,  in  the 
last  instance,  at  least.  Much  as  he  had  formerly  disliked  the 
gurgling  and  splashing  sound  of  the  language  of  the  new-comers, 
it  had  never  irritated  his  nerves  so  effectually  as  at  present  it 
did,  while  breaking  the  lordly  silence  of  the  spacious  hall  and 
staircase  he  ascended.  Upon  each  landing-place  a  group  of 
Dutch  officers  were  stationed,  questioning  all  who  approached 
the  king’s  apartments,  and  afterwards  discoursing  with  one 
another,  while  ever  and  anon  they  sucked  their  massive  pipes, 
and  puffed  out  a  contribution  to  the  grand  cloud  of  smoke  be¬ 
neath  which  they  were  canopied.  An  anteroom,  gained  from 
the  second  landing-place,  was  also  filled  with  them  and  their 
esteemed  vapor.  But  here  reigned  comparative  silence,  as  the 

18 


no 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


royal  warders,  not  obliged  to  be  as  watchful  as  their  brethren 
outside  and  below  stairs,  could  stretch  themselves  out  on  forms 
or  ottomans,  and  closely  attaching  themselves  to  their  puffing 
pastime,  devote  their  souls  to  taciturnity. 

At  an  explanation  given  by  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  our 
party  were  permitted  to  pass  through  the  anteroom  into  the 
chamber  of  audience.  The  first  figures  which,  even  here,  struck 
the  eye,  were  some  of  the  highest  in  rank  of  the  Dutch  officers, 
still  smoking,  and  not  unfrequently  withdrawing  their  pipes  from 
their  lips,  to  inflict  upon  the  Turkey  carpet  that  indignity,  for 
the  committing  of  which  Chesterfield  has  since  averred  he 
Always  found  it  in  his  heart  to  knock  a  man  down.  Through 
volumes  of  smoke  appeared,  at  the  end  of  the  chamber  next  the 
anteroom,  considerable  groups  of  sage  and  serious  persons,  cabi¬ 
net  ministers,  parliamentary  deputies,  law-officers,  church  digni¬ 
taries,  aud  some  noble  dames.  All  waiting  to  render  accounts  of 
certain  commissions,  or  to  present  addresses,  or  to  proffer  humble 
suits  to  the  ear  of  royalty  ;  and  all  evincing  some  disgust,  the 
ladies  especially,  of  the  Dutch  atmosphere  they  were  constrained 
to  breathe  on  English  ground  ;  with  some  impatience  of  the 
length  of  time  they  were  kept  waiting.  Every  eye  was  fixed 
upon  a  tapestried  arras,  which,  with  a  division  in  the  middle, 
fell  over  a  small  closet-door  at  one  side  of  the  remote  end  wall 
of  the  apartment.  Disagreeable  silence  prevailed.  The  Dutch 
general  officers  spoke  not  a  word,  even  to  each  other ;  greetings 
were  exchanged  in  dumb  show  between  the  English  portion  of 
the  levee  ;  at  most,  cautious  whispers  alone  could  be  heard. 
Thus  nearly  an  hour  had  passed  since  the  admission  of  Evelyn 
and  his  friends,  when  the  tedium  was  at  length  relieved  by  the 
quick  opening  of  the  door  which  communicated  with  the  ante¬ 
room,  and  the  as  quick  entrance  of  a  remarkable  little  man,  on 
whom  every  glance  immediately  fixed  ;  for  whom  every  one 
made  way  ;  and  who,  in  Evelyn’s  miud,  if  not  the  king,  must  be 
a  personage  of  nearly  equal  importance  and  interest. 

Joined  to  a  low,  slight,  but  agile  and  graceful  figure,  he  had 
that  kind  of  sallow,  broad-boned,  hollow-cheeked  visage,  with 
cocked  nose,  sharp  chin,  and  lively  gray  eyes,  which  English 
children  grown  ones,  too,  assume  to  themselves  as  the  authentic 
abstract  of  Gallic  faces  in  general. 

“The  prime  favorite,”  whispered  Mr.  Walker  to  Evelyn,  as 
this  individual  smirkingly  returned  the  many  salutations  he  met 
on  his  way  through  the  courtly  crowd.  “  Monsieur  Bentinck, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


411 


now  ray  Lord  Portland,  first  commissioner  on  the  privy  list,  and 
groom  of  the  stole  and  privy  purse.” 

At  another  step,  the  envied  and  then  sole  confidant  of  Wil¬ 
liam  III.  stood  by  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  earnestly  grasping 
bis  hands,  while  they  spoke  very  seriously  and  secretly  on  some 
matter  of  apparent  importance,  perhaps  of  alarm.  Ere  Ben- 
tinck  parted  from  his  right  reverend  friend,  a  few  sentences  be¬ 
came  audible. 

“  You  will  then  break  the  news,  to-day,  my  lord  ?”  asked  Bur¬ 
net. 

“  Oui,  monsieur,  il  le  faut  absolument.r 

“  But  does  not  your  lordship  think,  that,  as  the  first  detector 
of  this  affair,  I — •” 

“  Mais  oui,  monseigneur,  bien  certainement — dat  is,  when  his 
majeste  shall  know — voyez-vous  !”  and  away  he  glided  towards 
the  far  end  of  the  apartment,  leaving  the  dignitary  in  a  seeming 
quandary,  and  bowing  at  either  side  to  the  Dutch  officers,  who, 
without  moving  their  pipes  or  their  limbs,  just  eyed  him,  in  his 
passage  along,  as  a  mastiff  eyes  the  kind  of  major-domo  trotting- 
about-the-house  of  a  little  pig-tailed  pug,  whom  his  master’s  will 
has  taught  him  to  tolerate,  without  loving  or  respecting.  The 
favorite  disappeared  behind  the  arras  of  the  closet-door.  Thither 
every  eye  was  again  directed,  while  profound  silence  reassumed 
its  reign  in  the  audience  chamber.  Nearly  another  hour  elapsed. 
At  length  the  arras  once  more  rustled.  Bentinck  issued  through 
it  ;  gave  a  sign  to  those  in  attendance  ;  and  took  his  place  at 
tne  side  of  the  little  door,  standik^  erect  and  motionless,  except 
that  with  one  arm  he  held  the  tapestry  apart.  Courtiers,  digni¬ 
taries,  suitors,  all  assumed  attitudes  of  attention.  Even  the 
Dutch  officers  slowly  withdrew  their  meerschaums  from  their 
lips,  and  their  arms  clanging,  got  upright  upon  their  legs,  and 
seemed  a  little  interested. 

Presently  appeared  William  and  Mary.  The  queen  first 
emerged  from  the  closet,  the  arm  of  her  royal  partner  drawn 
through  hers,  as  if,  reversing  the  usage  between  the  sexes,  she 
had  led  him,  against  his  will,  from  the  recesses  of  his  sullen 
privacy.  She  was  fully  as  tall,  and  looked  taller  than  the  king 
her  person  almost  twice  as  big,  and  seemed  more  so  on  account 
of  the  shapeless  flow  of  her  costume,  every  shred  of  which 
seemed  ready  to  fall  off.  Her  features  were  fine,  but  large,  mas¬ 
culine,  and  haughty  ;  the  up-turned,  high-piled  fashion  of  her 
dark  hair  confirmed  them  in  this  bold  character.  William’s 


412 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


slight,  almost  emaciated  figure,  clad  in  the  heavy  horseman’s 
boots,  loose,  broad-skirted  coat,  and  long-flapped  vest,  which  he 
generally  wore  in  readiness  for  the  hunting-field,  or  the  review- 
ground,  appeared  to  little  advantage  by  the  side  of  a  lady  so 
handsome,  so  haughty,  and  so  commanding.  While  his  thin, 
iragged,  copper  features,  exhibiting  a  discontent  that  might  be 
construed  into  sneer  and  misanthropy,  but  that  was,  perhaps,  as 
much  the  result  of  peevishness  inseparable  from  continued  bad 
health,  were  nearly  lost  in  the  huge  periwig  that  fashion  then 
inflicted  on  the  heads  of  its  votaries. 

Having  made  one  step  into  the  audience-chamber,  and  cast 
one  keen  glauce  around,  the  king,  as  if  instinctively,  drew  back 
again,  evidently  disinclined  to  encounter  the  multifarious  business 
that  an  assemblage  so  numerous  seemed  to  portend.  His 
manner  indicated  a  mixed  shyness  and  self-importance,  such  as 
an  idle  and  overgrown  schoolboy  might  evince  at  being  called 
on  to  take  his  turn  in  exhibiting  before  a  Christmas  company. 
Queen  Mary  whispered,  however,  a  few  earnest  words,  that  had 
the  effect  of  controlling  this  movement.  Then,  after  some 
further  short  discourse  with  her  royal  partner,  she  spoke  aloud, 
in  a  full  imposing  voice. 

“  His  majesty  is  unusually  indisposed,  and  disinclined  10  much 
business  to-day,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  yet  will  he  endeavor  a 
word,  in  turn,  with  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  my  Lord 
Chief- Justice,  the  Marquis  of  Caermarthen,  my  Lord  Shrews¬ 
bury,  and  one  of  the  Irish  deputation.” 

Burnet,  the  law  lord,  and  the  privy  councillors,  accordingly 
detached  themselves  from  the  far  groups.  Walker,  answering 
to  the  last  invitation,  also  advanced  a  step,  when  William,  as  if 
his  quick  eye  had  caught  the  movemeut,  half  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  addressed  a  word  to  the  ear  of  his  queen,  who  immediately 
added — 

“  His  majesty  will  hear,  in  preference  to  the  others  of  the 
deputation  from  Ireland,  brief  speech  from  the  officer  who  comes 
especially  accredited  by  letters  from  Duke  Schomberg  ;  Captain 
Evelyn,  belike.” 

Walker  bit  his  lip,  and  stepped  back.  Evelyn  bowed  low, 
and  walked  forward. 

“  So,  Sir  John  Holt,”  he  heard  William  say,  abruptly,  to  the 
chief-justice,  as  he  came  near  the  private  group — (William 
spoke  English  distinctly,  it  having  been  almost  his  domestic 
ianguage,  and  that  by  which  his  mother,  Mary  of  England,  had 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


413 


conveyed  to  him  the  scanty  education  he  could  boast) — “  So, 
Sir  John  Holt  ;  you  have  outlived,  I  believe,  all  the  great  law¬ 
yers  of  your  day.” 

“  I  had  nearly  outlived  the  law,  but  for  your  majesty,”  replied 
Sir  John,  elegantly  foiling  the  gratuitous  rudeness. 

“  Humph  !”  turning  aside  with  an  air  that  all  knew  betokened 
an  end  to  further  conference  with  the  chief-justice.  “So, 
Bishop  of  Salisbury.’ ’ 

“  Touching  your  majesty’s  mature  consideration  of—”  Burnet 
began.  The  queen  interrupted  him. 

“  The  bishop  hopes  your  majesty  has  come  to  a  conclusion  on 
the  good  measure  we  last  discoursed  on,  this  morning.” 

“  The  conclusion  and  the  answer  have  before  been  rendered, 
madame,”  said  William  coldly  ;  “I  am  no  persecutor.  In  the 
name  of  God,  let  the  matter  end.  So,”  turning  just  as  coldly 
to  Evelyn,  “  you  be  the  Irish  captain  Schomberg  mentions  ?” 
Evelyn  bowed. 

“  Get  you  before  the  parliament,  sir,  you  and  your  fellows. 
It  is  time  we  were  freed  from  their  addresses,  by  your  evidence. 
What  know  we  of  the  Irish  failures  ?  and  yet  they  press  us, 
day  after  day,  for  an  explanation.  Why  did  he  not  fight,  sir  ? 
No  matter,  reserve  an  answer  for  the  parliament,  I  say.  Now, 
my  Lord  Shrewsbury,”  again  turning  aside,  “  you  can  tell,  in  a 
word,  how  they  at  length  agree  to  settle  our  revenue.  For 
life,  my  lord  ?” 

“I  grieve  to  say  but  a  year,  may  it  please  your  majesty.” 

“  And  this  their  final  resolve  ?  Insolents  1  they  will  leave  us 
but  the  shadow  of  power — a  pageant  title,  and  no  more.  What 
of  the  indemnity  bill,  my  lord  ?” 

“  Still  warmly  disputed,  your  highness.’ 

“  And  the  comprehension  lost,  too  ?” 

“  Nolumus  leges  Anglice  mutari,  is  the  decision  of  your 
majesty’s  commissioners,  quoted  from  a  well-known  source,” 
answered  Shrewsbury. 

“  Fools  !  they  were  not  asked  to  change  the  laws  of  England. 
Bigots  !”  he  added,  inaudibly,  as  if  about  to  re-enter  his  closet, 
leaving  his  queen  behind  him. 

“  Will  it  please  your  majesty,”  said  the  Marquis  of  Caer- 
raarthen,  following  him,  “  to  consider  the  proposals  of  the  Tory 
noblemen  and  gentlemen,  in  all  things  to  study  your  highness’s 
pleasure,  provided — ” 

“  Provided  I  come  to  open  rupture  with  my  insolent  Whig 


414 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


parliament,  and  give  them  a  petty  triumph  over  their  petty 
enemies,”  interrupted  William  ;  “  goes  it  not  so,  my  lord  mar¬ 
quis  ?  I  appeal  to  God  to  witness,  that  never  was  prince  so 
beset  by  an  ungrateful  and  fickle  people.  Whig  and  Tory — 
Tory  and  Whig — Nonjurors,  and — look  ye,  my  lords,  I  can  trust 
your  Tory  no  more  than  your  Whig — I  love  not  either — I  fear 
both.  Both  have  insulted  my  crown,  and  embittered  my  exist¬ 
ence.  Look  ye  again,  my  resolution,  long  discussed,  is  at  last 
taken  :  our  convoy  is  ready.  Bentinck,  see  that  saddles  are  also 
ready  by  the  morning.  I  leave  them  all  to  the  turbulence  they 
live  by.  I  will  seek  my  native  court  and  my  faithful  and  tran¬ 
quil  Hollanders,”  glancing  at  the  row  of  motionless  officers, 
whose  lethargic  air  seemed  the  very  pride  of  his  eye.  “  I  will 
have  rest  and  friends  about  me,  peace  and  allegiance.  Let  your 
own  English  Mary  stay  behind  to  rule  ye,  she  understands  it. 
As  God  heareth  me,  I  do  not ;  and  on  the  same  appeal  do  I 
declare — ” 

“  My  gracious  sire,”  interrupted  Shrewsbury,  dropping  on  Ills 
knee,  while  his  eyes  glistened,  “  desert  not  the  people  you  have 
saved  ;  the  good  work  you  have  so  well  begun.” 

“  Save  us  from  ourselves,”  said  Caermarthen,  also  kneeling  and 
much  alFected,  or  seeming  so  ;  “  from  a  renewal  of  the  peril  in 
which  you  found  us.” 

“  From  a  return  of  Popery  !”  groaned  Burnet. 

“  This  is  the  time  for  one  hint,”  whispered  Bentinck  to  the 
prostrate  bishop  ;  “  it  will  rouse  him.” 

“  From  present  and  absolute  treason !”  continued  Burnet,  in  a 
low  voice,  understanding  the  favorite  ;  “  from  the  effects  of  a 
plot  this  moment  carried  on  against  your  majesty’s  crown  1” 
William  started,  reddened,  his  slight  figure  became  erect  and 
stern,  his  eye  kindled  up,  and  he  turned  fully  round 

“  What  say  you,  my  lords  ?  A  plot  so  soon  ?” 

“  Arretez-vous  /”  here  cried  Bentinck.,  from  the  side  of  the 
door,  as  he  frowningly  fixed  his  glance  on  some  person  who 
endeavored  to  approach,  unbidden,  the  remote  and  private  group, 
often  interrupted  by  the  crowd  through  which  he  struggled.  At 
the  same  moment  the  watchful  favorite  darted  along  the  spacious 
apartment,  and  seized  the  arm  of  a  young  man,  in  a  foreign  dress. 
Evelyn’s  heart  jumped  to  his  throat ;  though  the  face  remained 
hidden,  it  was  the  individual  he  had  seen  in  the  gardens. 

This  incident  attracted  the  keenest  attention  of  all.  The 
noblemen  and  bishop  arose  ;  the  king  again  stept  back,  anti 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


415 


followed  with  his  eye  the  motions  of  Bentinck  ;  the  queen,  sailing 
to  him  like  a  ruffled  swan,  once  more  took  his  arm.  But  no 
cause  for  alarm  at  first  appeared.  Bentinck  was  only  seen  to 
take  a  paper  from  the  stripling’s  hand,  and  then  heard  to  say  : 
“  Present  it  myself?  ma  foi!  I  shall  know  my  duties  better— 
quelle  folie  /” 

“  Present  it,  at  the  instant,  whatever  it  may  import,”  cried 
the  queen,  in  some  misgiving  ;  “  shall  he  not,  my  liege  ?” 

William  nodded,  coldly.  Bentinck  gave  a  folded  letter. 

“  It  purports,”  said  the  king,  after  he  had  glanced  over  it, 
“  to  be  a  credential,  in  the  youth’s  favor,  from  a  well-known 
hand.  But,”  after  another  pause,  “  seize  the  bearer  !  it  is  a 
forgery.” 

The  Dutch  officers  at  last  got  iuto  motion.  The  groups  at 
the  remote  end  of  the  room  appeared  at  first  disturbed,  and  then 
astonished.  It  was  finally  reported  that  the  young  stranger  had 
escaped  from  the  room,  and  down  stairs,  through  all  the  guards, 
out  of  the  palace. 

“  Pursue  him  !”  cried  the  queen,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

“Belike  you  say  true,  my  lords,”  resumed  William,  now 
relapsed  into  his  usual  coldness,  and  in  remark  upon  some  closely 
whispered  information  conveyed  by  Burnet  and  Bentinck,  “  be¬ 
like  there  is  a  plot,  and  that  this  very  youth  makes  part  of  it. 
To  our  closet,  madam.  Follow  us,  Bishop  of  Salisbury.” 

Bentinck,  unbidden,  was  included  in  the  invitation. 

“  Sir  James  Montgomery,  you  say,  one  of  the  very  com- 
passers  of  the  revolution  ?”  Mary  asked,  as  soon  as  they  had 
entered  the  closet. 

“  The  same,  your  highness  ;  and  by  his  brother  did  I,  with 
some  prudence,  discover  it.” 

“  But  Monsieur  Nevil  Payne  is  the  head  of  all,”  observed 
Portland,  “  as  I  found  out  by  bribing  one  to  be  my  spy  on 
him.” 

“  Montgomery’s  brother  hath  assured  me,  and,  craving  pardon 
of  my  Lord  Portland,  I  believe  I  know  most  of  this  matter — 
hath  assured  me  that  a  treaty  with  James  has  absolutely  been 
signed  by  the  whole  cabal,  English  and  Scotch,  as  they  are. 

“  By  my  Lords  Ross,  Aunandale,  and  Nottingham,  as  I  can 
proof,”  continued  the  zealous  favorite. 

“  By  my  Lords  Clarendon,  Yarmouth,  Newberry,  Griffin, 
Castlemain,  and  many  other  lords  and  gentlemen  in  England,” 
continued  the  as  zealous  bishop. 


416 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


11  Aud  Hume,  Argyle,  Breadalbane,  and  others  too,  in  Scot* 
land,”  interrupted  Bentinck. 

“  Are  the  proofs  yet  plain  ?”  asked  William. 

“We  hope  soon  to  have  them  so,”  answered  the  bishop  and 
favorite  iu  a  breath. 

“  When  they  are,”  resumed  William,  “  let  us  talk  more  about 
it.  For  the  present  this  matter  alters  our  plan  of  going  imme¬ 
diately  to  Holland.  We  might  fly  from  fools,  not  from  foes  ; 
from  disquietude,  not  danger.  Now  shall  the  Irish  war  soon 
receive,  indeed,  our  personal  care.  And  I  shall  go  to  Ireland, 
my  lord  bishop,  with  a  lighter  heart.  For,”  repeating  an  ex¬ 
pression  he  had  often  used,  “  I  believe  I  better  know  how  to 
engage  in  a  campaign  than  to  govern  England.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Evelyn  remained  in  a  state  of  the  most  torturing  suspense. 
He  had  heard  the  orders  given  to  pursue  the  bearer  of  the  forged 
letter  ;  he  had  heard  the  guards  get  into  motion  for  pursuit ;  as 
he  gained  the  streets  of  the  village,  all  were  in  confusion,  speak¬ 
ing  of  the  wretched  fugitive;  some  making  inquiries,  some  giving 
hints  of  the  way  he  had,  or  might  have  taken.  Evelyn  walked 
about  till  a  late  hour  in  the  evening,  to  assure  himself  of  the 
result  ;  aud  at  last  retired  to  his  lodgings,  partially  relieved.  The 
retreat,  or  even  the  course  of  the  suspected  person,  had  not  been 
discovered. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  brought  him  the  same  assurances. 
Active  measures  were  taken  in  London  as  well  as  Kensington, 
still  to  no  purpose.  Pursuit  gradually  died  away.  The  circum¬ 
stance  as  gradually  ceased  to  be  talked  of.  Evel)n  could  no 
longer  doubt  that  the  fugitive,  anticipating  his  enemies,  had 
hastily  embarked  for  Ireland  at  .some  near  port. 

But  while  the  belief  eased  his  mind  in  one  respect,  it  was  only 
to  propose  a  new  cause  of  uneasiness.  Eva — for  Evelyn  now 
scarce  doubted  her  identity  with  this  individual — Eva,  though 
free  from  immediate  danger  in  Eugland,  was  exposed,  in  Ireland, 
to  all  the  perils  and  disgrace  of  the  unworthy  character,  and  the 
course  of  action  her  enraged  spirit  had  prompted  her  to  adopt 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


417 


It  became  his  great  duty,  and  now  the  only  solicitude  of  his  life, 
to  seek  her  out,  to  convince  her  of  the  impropriety  of  her  career, 
to  win  her  from  it,  and  if  past  circumstances  would  not  permit 
their  ultimate  reunion,  at  least  to  restore  her  to  a  life  more  worthy 
of  her  and  him.  Already  had  he  determined  on  a  plan  by  which 
he  hoped  to  hear  of  Eva,  to  approach  her,  and  endeavor  to 
effect  his  view.  But  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  first  be 
in  Ireland.  And  here  arose  his  new  cause  for  disquietude.  To 
Ireland  he  could  not  go,  until  he  had  answered  the  claims  of  the 
public  duty  which  compelled  him  to  come  to  England.  Unless, 
indeed,  he  broke  through  all  the  restraints  of  that  duty,  now 
confirmed  and  made  coercive  by  the  commands  of  the  king  to 
attend  a  summons  from  the  parliament. 

Patience  and  hope  once  more  became,  then,  his  only  support. 
But  the  continued  quarrelling  of  the  king  with  his  subjects  ; 
the  progress  and  details  of  the  widespread  conspiracy  just  de¬ 
tected;  the  endless  whispers  of  a  court  ;  nothing  interested  him 
sufficiently  to  fill  up  the  aching  blank  of  a  separation  from  his 
own  wretched  concerns.  At  last  he  was  called,  with  his  friends, 
before  a  committee  of  the  Commons.  After  a  wearisome  inves¬ 
tigation,  and  attendance  from  day  to  day,  Schomberg  became  re¬ 
lieved  from  the  imaginary  odium  of  a  defeat  he  could  not  have 
provided  agaiust,  and  some  poor  “  victualler”  was  selected  to 
bear,  in  his  stead,  the  weight  of  parliamentary  indignation  and 
self-conceit.  Still  came  no  relief  to  Evelyn.  The  Irish  deputa¬ 
tion,  and  he,  in  particular,  received  peremptory  notice  to  attend 
at  the  beck  of  the  legislators,  lest,  in  the  course  of  the  session, 
their  local  information  might  once  more  be  required.  And  it  was 
not  until  William,  provoked  beyond  endurance  with  continued 
retaliations  upon  his  imperiousness  and  rudeuess,  at  last  dissolved 
the  very  parliament  that  had  called  him  to  the  throne — he  and 
they  separating  in  mutual  disgust,  and  with  mutual  charges  of 
ingratitude — that  Evelyn  found  himself  at  liberty  to  leave  Eng¬ 
land. 

Then  he  lost  as  little  time  as  possible  in  posting  to  Liverpool 
Mr.  Walker  and  some  of  his  brother  deputies  accompanied  him 
It  was  arranged  to  take  a  vessel  to  Belfast.  For  more  than  a 
week  none  offered.  And  when  at  length  they  engaged  with  one, 
the  weather  became  furiously  tempestuous  ;  the  wind  set  in  theii 
teeth,  and,  for  nearly  double  the  time  of  their  former  delay,  re¬ 
mained  so  ;  the  captain  refusing  to  venture  out  of  harbor.  Eve¬ 
lyn,  as  many  others  in  his  situation  have  done,  before  and  since, 

18* 


418 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


lost  all  temper  with  the  winds  and  waves  ;  and  thought  of  .ear¬ 
ing  Liverpool  for  some  other  port.  But  the  daily  hope  of  a 
favorable  change  in  the  weather,  added  to  the  remonstrances  of 
his  friends,  and  the  usual  good  prophecies  of  the  captain,  kept 
him  stationary.  As  even  the  elements  can  be  tired  out,  though 
they  will  not  be  bullied,  he  finally  embarked  for  Belfast,  about 
six  weeks  after  the  dissolution  of  Parliament. 

But  though  it  is  a  point  to  embark,  when  a  man  is  in  a  hurry, 
the  chances  against  his  speedy  arrival  at  any  given  port  are  by 
no  means  removed  by  his  getting  out  to  sea.  Such,  at  least, 
was  the  case  at  the  time  of  our  story  ;  people  were  then  happy 
to  be  assisted  by  the  winds  of  heaven,  instead  of  entering  into  a 
contest  with  them.  After  some  days7  patient  tacking,  in  rather 
calm  weather,  during  which  the  captain  was  content  to  make 
what  way  he  could,  the  breeze  again  blew  into  their  teeth,  and, 
keeping  firm  in  this  point,  increased  to  a  gale,  and  at  last  rose 
to  a  hurricane.  Yielding  to  its  fury,  the  sole  anxiety  of  the 
captain  now  was  to  preserve  as  much  sea-room  as  possible,  and 
avoid  all  contact  with  the  inhospitable  southeast  coast  of  Ireland, 
as  well  as  with  the  sublime,  but  equally  dangerous  coast  of  North 
and  South  Wales.  So  down  the  channel  the  ship  flew,  running 
eleven  knots  an  hour,  and  bearing  Evelyn  further  and  further 
from  his  point,  with  thrice  the  celerity  at  which  it  had  at  first 
borne  him  towards  it.  Milford  was  past  ;  Land’s  end  was  past, 
and,  what  was  worse,  doubled.  From  St.  George’s  Channel 
they  were  now  blown  into  the  British  Channel,  with  every  pros¬ 
pect  of  being  compelled  to  run  for  a  French  port,  and  there,  of 
course,  become  prisoners  of  war — if,  indeed,  some  French  ship 
of  the  line  did  not  save  them  that  trouble,  by  meeting  them 
about  the  Downs,  or  off  Beachy-head,  and  taking  them  under 
her  protection. 

This  chance  was  not,  however,  in  store  for  them.  Soon  after 
entering  the  British  Channel,  the  wind,  without  abating  its  vio¬ 
lence,  changed  so  as  to  bear  them  fairly  through  the  Straits  of 
Dover  ;  and,  at  last  growing  moderate,  suffered  Evelyn  to  land 
at  Ramsgate, — about  four  hundred  miles,  even  by  land-travelling, 
further  from  Belfast  than  when  he  had  embarked  at  Liverpool. 
And  nearly  another  fortnight  was  thus  spent  to  no  purpose. 

From  Ramsgate  he  resolved  to  recommence  his  journey  to 
Belfast,  by  passing  through  Er  gland  ;  proceeding,  still  by  land, 
to  Scotland  ;  and  at  last,  taking  a  vessel  from  some  opposite 
port  to  the  Irish  northern  town.  Disgusted  with  the  sea,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


419 


only  anxious  to  get  home,  this  plan  he  thought  the  most  prudent, 
particularly  as  the  weather  continued  stormy  and  unsettled.  But 
the  reader  must  not  suppose  that  Evelyn  was  able  to  accomplish 
his  long  journey  in  less  than  treble  the  time  that,  at  the  present 
day,  it  would  cost  him.  In  fact,  he  did  not  reach  the  point  of 
embarkation  in  Scotland  until  the  month  of  April  had  nearly 
been  spent  ;  more  delay  and  demur  still  happened,  short  as  was 
the  sea  to  be  crossed,  until  he  finally  touched  Irish  ground. 
Then  Schomberg  had  transferred  his  headquarters  from  Belfast 
to  Lisburne,  some  further  distance  south  ;  thither  Evelyn  was 
compelled  to  follow  him,  to  render  up  an  account  of  his  com¬ 
mission.  It  took  many  days,  after  his  meeting  with  the  old 
general,  to  perform  this  duty,  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  Schom¬ 
berg  afterwards  insisting  on  his  services  in  disciplining  some  con¬ 
siderable  bodies  of  native  re-enforcements,  just  come  up  to  the 
Enniskilleners.  To  his  utter  impatience,  anguish,  and,  we  may 
say,  despair,  the  summer  sun  of  June  was  bright  and  unclouded 
in  the  sky,  ere  he  could  get  a  hearing  for  his  continued  requests 
to  absent  himself  on  private  business. 

But  at  length  obtaining  a  pass  from  his  commanding  officer, 
Evelyn  prepared  to  travel  southward.  Early  upon  the  morning 
of  his  departure  from  Lisburne,  Mr.  Walker,  once  more  capari¬ 
soned  as  a  true  son  of  the  church  militant,  entered  his  quarters. 
Evelyn  stared,  but  neither  wished  nor  had  time  to  embarrass 
himself  further  with  the  matter.  His  old  friend  saved  him  the 
trouble  of  inquiries.  Seeing  Ireland  still  abandoned  by  the 
sovereign  who  ought  to  protect  her,  and  now  totally  despairing, 
along  with  all  zealous  and  watchful  observers,  of  the  personal 
interference  of  William,  he  could  not  avoid,  he  said,  again  taking 
the  sword  into  his  hand,  in  the  hopes  that  his  future  efforts  for 
his  country  and  religion  might  be  crowned  with  a  portion  of  th* 
humble  success  that  it  had  before  pleased  God  to  accord  then*. 
Mr.  Walker  added,  that  he  had  just  succeeded  in  rallying  some 
of  the  old  and  faithful  parishioners  who,  at  the  hour  of  necu, 
honored  him  with  a  command  at  Donoughmore.  That  he  had, 
yesterday,  marched  them  to  join  Schomberg,  and  was  now  pre¬ 
pared  to  head  them,  at  the  call  of  patriotism,  and  of  the  Lord, 
on  any  good  service. 

Evelyn,  scarce  heeding  this  information,  hastily  took  leave  o«T 
the  spurred,  and  belted,  and  helmeted  dignitary,  and  mounting  a 
good  steed,  set  forth,  alone,  on  his  southern  journey. 

The  morning  was  young,  Evelyn’s  anxiety  great,  and  his  horata 


420 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


good.  Notwithstanding  the  badness  of  the  road,  on  which  he 
had,  the  last  autumn,  witnessed  such  distress,  his  progress  gave 
hope  that  a  considerable  day’s  journey  should  be  performed  ere 
the  sun’s  decline.  He  met  few  individuals  coming  against  him 
on  the  lonely  way,  and  those  few  were  expresses  from  near  out¬ 
posts  to  Schomberg’s  headquarters.  Fewer  still  passed  him  from 
behind.  But,  about  two  hours  after  he  had  been  on  horseback, 
his  attention  was  fixed  by  observing  that  a  solitary  horseman, 
like  himself,  and  wearing  the  large  blue  cloak,  that  was  a  badge 
of  the  Enniskillen  dragoons,  followed  in  his  track,  seeming 
exactly  to  time  his  motions  to  those  of  Evelyn  ;  spurring  hard 
when  he  spurred,  pulling  up  when  he  slackened  his  speed ;  and 
once  or  twice,  as  Evelyn  came  to  a  dead  halt,  for  experiment 
sake,  halting  also. 

In  his  present  mood,  this  irritated  Evelyn.  He  did  not  wish 
to  be  watched  and  dogged  in  such  a  fashion.  He  wanted  to 
think,  and  could  not.  He  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  this  strange 
kind  of  companionship,  although  the  horseman  never  ventured 
nearer  than  two  or  three  hundred  yards,  did  not  permit  him  to 
feel  as  if  he  were  so.  He  tried  every  civil  means  of  making  the 
person  pass  on  ;  all  were  useless.  At  last,  he  even  turned  his 
horse’s  head,  intending  to  ride  back,  and  confront  the  object  of 
his  impatience :  here,  too,  his  movements  were  imitated.  His 
shadow  retreated  also,  and  having  as  good  a  horse,  Evelyn 
found  it  as  difficult  to  get  before  him,  as  to  have  walked  past  his 
real  shadow,  with  the  sun  in  his  back.  Finally,  amused,  as  much 
as  annoyed,  he  resolved  to  hold  on  in  his  own  course,  and  put 
the  matter  out  of  his  head. 

During  an  afternoon  halt,  which  he  made  to  refresh  his  horse 
and  himself,  Evelyn  saw  nothing  of  his  self-elected  warder,  and 
hoped  now  to  continue  free  of  his  attentions.  But  he  had  not 
resumed  his  journey  above  a  few  minutes,  when  the  same  person 
again  appeared  at  the  usual  distance  behind  him.  As  evening 
fell,  after  he  had  passed  the  last  of  the  English  outposts,  and 
come  in  view  of  the  ruins  of  Newry,  this  pertinacious  dogging 
of  his  steps  by  an  unknown  individual,  begot  some  suspicion,  if 
not  alarm.  At  length,  while  approaching  an  outpost  of  the 
Irish  army,  he  resolutely  drew  up,  and  resolved  to  get  his  perse 
cutor  in  his  front,  before  he  would  venture  further.  But  now 
the  stranger  horseman  did  not  seem  any  longer  to  shun  an  en¬ 
counter.  Putting  his  steed  to  full  gallop,  he  quickly  gained  the 
place  where  Evelyn  stood,  it  need  not  be  added,  on  the  defensive, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


421 


tiid,  keeping  the  far  side  of  the  road,  rapidly  passed  him,  saying, 
in  his  quick  transit  : 

“  Do  you  know  what  you’re  for  doing,  sir  ?  Do  you  know 
them  that’s  afore  you?  Yon’s  the  wild  Irish  folk.” 

“  I  know  it,”  replied  Evelyn  ;  “  and  it  is  my  intention  to 
approach  them  in  peace.” 

“  Then  a  friend  may  do  no  harm  aforehand,”  continued  the 
stranger.  “Just  pull  up  a  bit,  Captain  Evelyn;  I  mane  you 
good.” 

And  forward  the  horseman  rode.  Evelyn  could  perceive  that, 
in  uttering  the  words  we  have  noticed,  the  speaker  made  a 
clumsy  effort  to  alter  the  tones  of  the  voice  from  the  southern 
Irish  brogue,  to  the  half-Scottish  northern  slang  ;  while  he  also 
endeavored,  by  slouching  his  hat,  and  raising  his  cloak,  to  con¬ 
ceal  his  face  and  figure.  In  the  latter  effort,  he  was  assisted  by 
the  twilight.  Yet  Evelyn  did  not  doubt  that  he  looked  upon 
the  slight  boyish  figure  of  his  former  singular  attendant  in  the 
camp  of  Loughbrickland. 

He  remained  stationary,  in  consequence  of  the  hint  received. 
The  stranger  speedily  came  up  with  a  body  of  men  who  occu¬ 
pied  a  few  cabins  and  temporary  huts,  on  a  little  eminence.  In 
a  few  moments,  Evelyn  saw  some  horse,  even  worse  mounted 
and  equipped  than  the  Enniskilleners,  and  about  a  hundred  pike- 
men,  mostly  barefooted,  and  with  no  arms  but  the  pike,  advance 
towards  him.  When  they  came  close,  a  strong  voice  challenged 
him,  whose  tones,  he  thought,  were  familiar  to  his  ear,  and  pres¬ 
ently  he  was  by  the  side  of  Friar  O’Haggerty,  who,  with  a 
drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  a  steel  cap  on  his  head,  and  a  sash 
tied  round  his  cassock,  appeared  in  command  of  the  party. 

“  Do  you  come  as  friend  or  foe  ?”  said  the  reverend  captain. 

“  I  approach  your  lines,  of  a  free  will,  to  request  safe  and 
speedy  conduct  to  General  Sarsfield,  with  whom  I  am  anxious 
to  hold  discourse  of  some  import,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  That  is  to  say,  you  abandon  the  cause  and  service  of  the 
usurper,  to  give  King  James  such  information  and  service  as 
are  in  your  power  to  give  ?” 

“  Pardon  me  ;  I  have  but  a  request  to  make.  To  Genera 
Sarsfield  I  will  answer  any  questions.” 

“  That  is  to  say,  you  will  answer  none  of  mine  ?” 

“  On  all  common  and  courteous  topics,  any  of  yours,  fredy 

“  That  is  to  say,  you  choose  to  remain  silent  touching  the 
business  of  your  present  journey  ?” 


422 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Even  so,  with  your  leave.” 

“  I  command  you  to  make  a  full  disclosure,”  continued 
O’Haggerty,  closing  on  him,  and  speaking  low  :  “  I  give  no 
leave  for  such  contemptuous  silence.” 

“  Then,  without  your  leave,  sir,”  replied  Evelyn. 

“  Beware,”  resumed  the  friar  ;  “  I  can  compel  your  confidence 
— or,  at  the  least,  cross  your  journey.” 

“  I  doubt  if  you  can — or  that  you  dare,  sir.” 

“  Guard  him  to  the  huts,”  cried  the  friar,  addressiug  his  men, 
as  he  turned  off. 

“You  will  interrupt  me  at  your  peril,”  said  Evelyn.  “  I  take  all 
to  witness  my  protest  against  this  measure.  I  take  all  to  witness 
that  I  am  obstructed  in  my  progress  to  hold  important  commu¬ 
nication  with  General  Sarsfield.” 

O’Haggerty  remained  silent.  Evelyn  was  led  to  a  hut  ;  and 
then,  a  sentinel  having  been  placed  at  the  door,  left  to  his  reflec¬ 
tions.  The  interruption  irritated  him  beyond  bounds.  If  it 
continued,  it  must  prove  fatal  to  all  his  hopes  and  projects.  He 
sat  for  some  time  chafing  with  impatience.  The  night  fell  fast  ; 
he  reckoned  on  another  interview  with  O’Haggerty,  but  was  dis¬ 
appointed.  Neither  that  holy  commander,  nor  any  other  person 
approached  his  hut. 

Hours  flew  on,  and  the  only  footstep  that  he  could  hear  was 
that  of  the  solitary  sentinel  who  paced  before  the  door  of  his 
temporary  prison.  He  approached  the  door,  and  requested  the 
man  to  bear  a  message  from  him  to  his  reverend  commandei  ; 
but  “  Nein  Sassenach — gho  mock  a-sinn”  (no  English  get  out 
of  that)  as  the  rude  soldier  brought  his  pike  to  a  charge,  was 
the  only  answer  he  could  obtain. 

At  last  he  thought  another  footstep  stealthily  came  up  with 
the  sentinel.  He  listened  ;  the  man  stopped  ;  Evelyn  heard  low 
whisperings  ;  and  in  a-  few  moments  his  follower  of  the  day 
entered,  with  caution,  the  small  and  frail  apartment.  Evelyn 
was  now  assured  that  this  was  the  same  person,  who,  almost  in 
a  similar  situation,  had  before  visited  his  nightly  solitude.  Fear¬ 
ing  nothing  from  former  recollections,  he  observed  the  motions 
of  the  stranger  with  strong  interest.  The  self-elected  attendant 
stepped  lightly  across  the  rugged  floor,  and,  as  had  previously 
happened  in  the  hut  of  Loughbrickland,  laid  before  him  some 
food,  and  a  flask  of  wine  ;  saying  in  a  tone  low  enough  not  to 
waken  Evelyn  if  he  had  slept  soundly  : 

“  Ate,  ate,  barrin’  the  sleep  isn’t  on  you  ” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


423 


“  I  am  awake,”  replied  Evelyn,  “  and  thank  you  for  your 
attentions.  Have  I  not  experienced  them  before,  in  Schomberg’s 
camp  ?” 

The  boy  was  silent. 

“  Answer,  I  entreat  you,  if  it  is  not  very  disagreeable.  Are 
you  not  the  youth  who  took  the  dagger  from  Kirke’s  hand  ? — 
who  waited  on  me  during  the  evening  and  night  of  that  day  ? — 
who  slept  at  my  feet,  and  who  followed  me,  all  this  day’s 
Journey  ?” 

“  I  am,  then,”  replied  the  stranger,  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  stood 
almost  invisible,  some  paces  off. 

“  And  who  are  you,  to  whom  I  am  so  much  indebted  ?  Who 
strove  to  confront  me  when  I  was  alone  in  despair  ;  friendless, 
companionless,  abandoned  by  all;  and  who  now  again  art  by  my 
side  in  affliction  ?  Who  are  you  ?” 

A  deep  sigh  was  the  only  answer. 

“Tell  me,  at  least,  on  what  account  it  has  been  my  good  for¬ 
tune  to  meet  so  kind  a  friend  ?  You  are  not  a  northern  ;  you 
cannot  be  attached  to  the  cause  you  seem  to  follow.  Why  have 
you  entered  into  the  ranks  of  the  Enniskilleners  ?” 

“To  be  near  you.” 

“  But  you  soon  left  me,  after  you  got  to  Dundalk.  Yet,  no  ; 
now  I  remember  the  cause,  poor  lad  ;  you  became  sick,  did  you 
not  ?” 

“  An’  is  it  only  now  you  remember  it  ?”  in  a  tone  of  deep 
reproach. 

“  Forgive  me.  You  know  or  may  have  known,  that  my  own 
griefs  were  overwhelming  ;  nor  had  I  forgotten  you  so  much, 
either.  Tell  me,”  continued  Evelyn,  a  quick  and  agitating, 
though  wild  association  springing  up,  “  have  I  ever  seen  you 
since  your  illness,  until  this  day  ?” 

The  stranger  was  again  silent. 

“  Tell  me,  I  entreat  !  have  I  not  seen  you  in  England — in 
the  gardens  of  the  king’s  palace  at  Kensington  ?”  he  cried, 
starting  up,  and  approaching  the  figure,  which  receded  to  the 
v  ocr  ;  “  who  are  you,  I  say,  or  rather  are  you  not  she  whom  my 
soul  leaps  to  meet — are  you  not  Eva — and  did  I  not  see  you 
I  here  ?” 

The  stranger  uttered  an  impassioned  and  impatient  cry,  and 
then  said,  loudly  and  rapidly  : 

“  No,  Sassenach,  no !  I  am  not  her  ;  but  you  saw  her  there.” 

“  Her  ! — whom  ? — whom  did  I  see  ?  Consider  your  answer.” 


424 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Her  you  think  so  much  about,  Eva  M’Danniel,  that’s  now 
the  ridin’  Rapparee.” 

“  Heavens!”  cried  Evelyn,  his  worst  fears  more  than  confirmed, 
“but  have  a  care!  How  are  you  assured  of  this?  Tell  me 
truly — and  who  are  you,  I  again  demand,  on  whose  word  the 
lady  I  love  and  only  live  for,  is  thus  forever  blasted  ?  Speak!” 

“  Thonomonduoul!”  cried  the  person  addressed,  in  an  altered 
tone,  and  now  fully  giving  way  to  passion,  “  I’ll  spake  no  word 
for  such  a  biddin’ — I’ll  spake  no  word  for  the  stampin’  an’  the 
threatenin’  of  him  that  when  the  body  is  afore  him  that  saved 
his  life,  more  than  onst,  and  ventured  life  mille  times  for  him,  ’ud 
forget  all,  an’  thrate  me  like  a  dog  just  for  sakes  of  a  thrapsin’ 
throllap  that  turns  her  back  on  him  to  go  wid  the  Rapparee 
captains.  Ba,nnocth-lath*  an’  may  God  reward  you.” 

“  Hold,”  cried  Evelyn,  as  the  person  was  about  to  pass 
through  the  doorway.  “  I  was  too  hasty,  and  indeed  too  harsh 
and  ungrateful.  Your  kind  attentions  should  not  be  so  soon 
forgotten;  and  they  are  not.  Forgive  me  and  let  us  speak 
further.” 

“  Let  us,  then;  and  somethin’  in  raison,”  and  the  figure  stopt, 
inside  the  door. 

“  I  am  now  more  than  ever  anxious  to  know  who  you  are,  and 
earnestly  request  you  to  inform  me.  Could  I  see  your  features, 
I  think  I  should  at  once  meet  proof  of  what  I  now  begin  to 
suspect.” 

“  Why,  then,  it  ’ud  be  the  first  time  you’d  see  ’em.” 

“I  believe  not;  though  I  understand  you  wish  to  be  unknown 
to  me.  But  ’tis  no  matter;  I  will  not  press  my  question,  since 
you  dislike  it.  Only  let  me  stand  acquitted  in  your  opinion. 
Let  me  assure  you  how  truly  and  deeply  you  have  at  last  aroused 
my  gratitude;  and  let  me  take  the  hand  to  which  I  owe  so  much.” 
He  extended  his  arm,  and  a  small  hand  was  placed  in  his. 
“  Come,”  Evelyn  continued,  gently  forcing  his  companion  to  the 
seat  he  had  left,  “let  us  sit  down,  together,  and  partake  of  the 
good  cheer  you  have  brought  me  ;  there — thanks,  thanks,  dear, 
kind  friend,”  he  whispered,  as  he  passed  his  arm  round  the  waist 
of  his  visitor,  whose  head  fell  on  his  shoulder,  and  whose  tears 
now  came  fast.  “Ay,  now,”  he  cried,  as  a  round  and  panting 
bosom  was  pressed  to  his,  “  now,  at  least,  do  I  know  who  y •  u 
are! — you  are  a  woman.  There  is  but  one  woman  alive  coo  \ 


*  Good-night. 


425 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 

have  placed  herself  in  such  a  situation;  and  now,  Moya  Laherty, 
I  am  sure  it  is  you  !  And  now,”  starting  up  and  standing  be¬ 
tween  her  and  the  door,  “  let  me  tell  you  more — let  me  tell  you 
I  suspect  you.”  The  girl  screamed  loudly,  and  strove  to  escape. 
11 1  suspect  all  the  stories  you  have  been  imposing  on  me  ;  and 
by  Heaven  1  you  stir  not  till  you  truly  answer  my  questions  ” 
Again  there  was  a  scream  ;  and  the  figure  glided  round  the 
wall,  towards  the  door,  Evelyn  baffling  its  movements.  At  the 
same  time,  the  sentinel  abroad  gave  the  alarm,  and  the  sound  ol 
tramping  footsteps  was  heard  approaching.  Evelyn  became  con¬ 
fused,  and  lost,  in  the  darkness,  all  sight  of  the  figure.  Still 
keeping  his  back  turned  to  the  door,  he  endeavored,  however,  to 
prevent  the  egress  of  any  person.  As  the  alarmed  guard  quickly 
came  up,  his  eye  caught,  an  instant  before  their  entrance,  a  re¬ 
newed  stir  in  the  gloom  ;  he  sprang  forward,  grasped  in  his  arras 
some  person  who  struggled  violently.  The  rude  guards  broke 
in,  bearing  lights  ;  the  glare  flashed  on  the  face  of  the  person  in 
Evelyn’s  custody  ;  he  looked  close  into  the  features — they  were 
Eva’s — excited,  as  he  had  seen  them,  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
and  still  strangely  influenced  by  the  accompaniment  of  male 
attire.  Uttering  a  loud  cry,  he  sprang  back  ;  instantly  the 
guards  seized  and  surrounded  him  ;  and,  when  he  again  glanced 
round,  Evelyn  could  see  no  one  but  them  in  the  hovel. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Recovering,  in  a  degree,  from  his  consternation,  Evelyn 
wildly  questioned  the  soldiers  as  to  the  identity  of  the  person 
with  whom  they  had  found  him  struggling.  But  they  could  not, 
or  would  not,  understand  him  ;  and  at  last  an  officer  (so  called, 
though  in  costume  or  manner  he  scarce  eclipsed  his  humbler 
brethren),  coldly  warning  him  to  keep  his  quarters  in  a  quieter 
manner,  withdrew  his  men,  and  once  more  Evelyn  was  left 
alone. 

The  morning  broke,  and  no  one  appeared  either  to  elucidate 
the  mystery  of  the  night,  or  to  relieve  him  from  his  durance. 
He  could  observe,  however,  that  two  soldiers  now  guarded  him. 
Of  them  he  made  new  inquiries  and  requests,  but  got  no  answer 


426 


THE  BOYIsE  WATEft. 


Evening  approached,  and  the  officer  waited  on  him  with  a  mes¬ 
sage  from  O’  Haggerty,  to  know  whether  or  not  he  would  now 
give  the  information  he  had  before  refused.  When  he  stead¬ 
fastly  declined  to  answer  any  further  questions,  the  officer  retired, 
observing,  in  turn,  a  negligent  silence  upon  the  continued  demands 
of  Evelyn  for  an  accouut  of  the  person  found  with  him,  the  pre¬ 
vious  night,  in  the  hut. 

Darkness  again  wrapt  the  interior  of  his  prison,  and  Evelyn 
panted  with  the  hope  that  the  object  of  all  his  thoughts  and 
solicitude  might  a  second  time  visit  him.  But  he  was  disap¬ 
pointed.  The  short  summer  night  passed  over  in  quietude  and 
monotony.  Another  day,  and  another  night  elapsed — a  third 
and  fourth — and  still  he  was  left  torn  with  suspense  and  incer¬ 
titude.  At  length,  after  a  week’s  confinement,  the  officer  re¬ 
turned  to  present  him  with  a  passport  to  Sarsfield,  conveying, 
at  the  same  time,  an  angry  censure  on  his  obstinacy,  and  an  inti¬ 
mation  that  he  was  released  only  in  the  hope  that  the  nature  of 
his  business  with  the  popular  Irish  general  might  be  of  service 
to  King  James.  Evelyn  concluded  that  O’Haggerty’s  curiosity 
and  officiousness  having  been  tired  out,  he  feared,  on  reflection, 
absolutely  to  obstruct  the  zeal  of  a  converted  enemy,  seemingly 
indicated  under  such  peculiar  circumstances.  Restored  to  liberty, 
and  presented  with  his  good  horse,  he  lost  no  time  in  pushing  on 
for  Dublin,  where,  as  he  had  been  informed,  Sarsfield  now  rested. 

But,  notwithstanding  his  intended  speed,  Evelyn  was  doomed 
to  encounter  additional  interruption  and  delay,  as  he  passed 
through  the  Irish  lines  and  quarters.  It  was  not  till  the  after¬ 
noon  of  the  twentieth  of  the  month,  that  he  found  himself  enter¬ 
ing  the  metropolis  of  Ireland. 

At  the  first  military  station,  where  he  made  inquiries  after 
the  abode  of  Sarsfield,  he  was,  despite  his  documents,  put  under 
arrest,  and  marched  as  a  prisoner  to  Sarsfield’s  house. 

Escorted  into  an  empty  apartment,  his  guard  remained  by  his 
side,  while  the  subaltern  went  to  announce  him  to  the  general. 
He  sent  in  his  name  and  description  at  full,  Captain  Evelyn,  an 
officer  of  the  Enniskillen  dragoons.  In  a  few  moments  the 
subaltern  returned,  led  him  to  the  door  of  another  apartment, 
flung  it  open,  and  Evelyn  was  in  the  presence  of  Sarsfield. 
Hamilton,  Sheldon,  and  many  other  Irish  officers  of  distinction, 
whom  he  found  at  a  table,  with  wine  before  them,  as  if  sitting 
after  dinner. 

All  rose  politely,  though  formally,  as  he  entered,  and  their 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


427 


eyes  fixed  on  him  with  evident  curiosity  and  interest.  He  bowed, 
particularly  to  Sarsfield  and  Hamilton,  whom  he  at  once  recog¬ 
nized,  and  proceeded  to  address  the  former. 

“  I  come,  General  Sarsfield,  most  anxious  to  have  the  honor 
of  some  discourse  with  you.” 

“  You  know  me  then,  sir?” 

“  I  have  seen  you  before,  sir,  under  circumstances  I  can  never 
forget,  although  they  may  have  escaped  your  recollection.” 

“  Well,  Mr.  Evelyn,  sit.”  All  resumed  their  seats  as  Evelyn 
complied  with  the  invitation,  Sarsfield’s  eye  resting  intently  on 
the  stranger.  There  was  a  pause,  Evelyn  not  wishing  to  go  on 
at  present. 

“  Friend  or  foe,  Mr.  Evelyn  ?  Excuse  a  question  the  times 
and  your  uniform  render  convenient,”  resumed  Sarsfield. 

“  On  no  hostile  intent  do  I  come,  surely,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  Welcome,  then,  or  welcome  in  any  character.  Soldiers  are 
not  churls,  even  when  foes.  I  pledge  you  a  welcome,  sir  ;”  he 
filled  a  glass  of  wine  for  Evelyn,  and  he  and  his  friends  drank 
the  stranger's  health. 

Another  pause  ensued.  Sarsfield  again  spoke. 

“  May  we  compliment  ourselves  on  the  gaining  for  King  James 
a  hitherto  respectable  opponent,  sir  ?” 

‘*  No,  sir,  1  am  King  William’s  officer.” 

•*  And  as  a  partisan  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  sir,  you  now 
come  before  us  ?” 

“  I  have  said,  as  King  William’s  officer.” 

"  Still  attached  to  his  cause  ?” 

“  And  not  to  be  separated  from  it.” 

Sarsfield’s  glance  continued  earnestly  and  studiously  fixed  on 
nis  visitor.  The  other  persons  present  looked  at  each  other. 
Sarsfield  went  on  : 

“  Then,  sir,  we  have,  of  course,  the  honor  to  recognize,  in  you, 
an  accredited  agent  from  the  rebel  party,  sent  to  us  on  some 
especial  matter  ?” 

“  No,  sir  ;  I  come  on  no  official  appointment.” 

“  Indeed  ?  it  follows,  then,  that,  from  some  unexplained  motive, 
you  choose  to  surrender  yourself  as  a  prisoner  of  war.  For  you 
cannot  be  ignorant,  Mr.  Evelyn,  that  such  must  be  the  nature 
of  your  present  unauthorized  situation.” 

“  I  hope  it  will  not  so  turn  out,  sir.” 

u  Ay  ?  But,  whatever  may  be  your  private  motive,  you  were 
aware  of  the  chance.” 


423 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Assuredly  I  was.” 

“  And  not  loth  to  encounter  it  ?” 

“  No.  I  was  assured  General  Sarsfield  would,  when  he  knew 
the  matter  that  urged  me  to  this  very  unusual  step,  be,  himself, 
my  security  for  it.” 

“  Ay,  forsooth  ?”  again  queried  Sarsfield,  his  regards  still 
deeply  fixed  on  Evelyn  ;  “  and  what  gave  you  this  convenient 
assurance  ?” 

“  Your  character,”  answered  Evelyn,  “  such  as  it  is  known  by 
general  report,  and  such  as  I  have  myself  observed  it  to  be  on 
the  occasion  I  before  glanced  at — namely,  when  I  saw  you  inter¬ 
est  yourself,  joined,  too,  by  another  gentleman  present,  for  the 
life  of  a  young  man,  then  of  your  party,  at  King  James’s  camp, 
near  Derry.” 

“  Oh,”  said  Sarsfield,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  the  matter, 
u  and  this  explains  some  misgiving  I  felt,  at  your  first  appear¬ 
ance,  of  having  seen  you  before.  Your  own  life,  I  believe,  was 
also  at  stake  along  with  that  young  man’s  ?w 

Evelyn  assented.  “  And  it  is  upon  business  in  which  he  and 
I  are  closely  concerned,  that  I  now  crave  your  ear,  at  your  good 
leisure,”  he  continued. 

Sarsfield’s  friends  rose  to  take  their  leave. 

“  I  believe  I,  too,  remember  the  affair,”  said  Hamilton,  as  he 
stood  up  ;  “  and  now  perfectly  call  to  mind  the  face  of  Mr. 
Evelyn.  Though,  indeed,  it  was  whiter  and  more  disturbed 
when  I  last  saw  it  ;  Galmoy  having  caused  it  some  agitation. 
Have  you  since  been  on  active  service,  sir  ?” 

“  I  saw  you  at  Dromore  and  Hillsborough,  General  Hamil¬ 
ton,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  Well,  you  might  as  well  have  seen  me  elsewhere.  But,  as 
to  the  rest,  was  it  more  pleasing  service  ?” 

“  I  must  not  find  fault  with  the  performance  of  duty,  at  any 
time,  sir.” 

“  Certainly,  no  ;  yet  Mr.  Evelyn  will  allow  us  to  express  our 
surprise,  or  if  not,  our  regret,  that  so  pretty  a  man  should  not  have 
preferred  the  right  side,  and,  assuredly,  the  gallanter  one.” 

“  It  were  idle  for  me,  General  Hamilton,  to  mention  the  causes 
that  first  led  me  to  think  yours  the  wrong  one.  Though  I 
might  easily  state  why,  for  more  recent  arguments,  I  continue  to 
believe  it  is.” 

“  Why  ay  ;  you  might  tell  us  that  James  has  given  assent  to 
the  mad  bill  for  repealing  the  Act  of  Settlement.” 


THE  EOYNE  WATEK. 


429 


“  Whereby  many  honorable  families  are  disinherited  and  sought 
to  be  beggared,”  interrupted  Evelyn. 

“  And  that  he  has  also  assented  to  the  motion  for  getting 
tithes  aud  benelices  conferred  on  his  Roman  Catholic  clergy.” 

“  Against  the  promise,  renewed  even  at  his  landing  in  Ireland, 
that  he  would  preserve  the  Established  Church  in  all  its  rights 
and  privileges — ” 

“  And  that  some  of  the  old  cathedrals  have  been  taken  back 
from  you  ;  that  the  college  has  a  Popish  head  ;  and  that  a  brass 
penny  goes  for  a  silver  shilling.  Have  I  not  almost  summed  up 
your  reasons  ?” 

“  Many  of  them  you  indeed  have.” 

“  Yet,  will  you  not  remember  that  if,  by  the  repeal  of  the  Act 
of  Settlement,  many  honorable  persons  are  deprived  of  property, 
as  many,  at  least,  were  victims,  in  a  similar  way,  to  its  enact¬ 
ment  ?  That  its  making  was  an  unjustified  act,  while  its  marring 
is  but — ” 

“  Tush,  tush,  General  Hamilton  ;  now  you  speak  too  lightly,” 
interrupted  Sarsfield.  “  You  know  you  strive  to  vindicate  a 
measure  that  you  dislike.” 

“  I  have  called  it  a  mad  act,”  answered  Hamilton,  “  and  I 
think  it  so.  I  think  it  one  directly  calculated  to  divide,  against 
the  king,  my  master,  the  country  which  it  ought  to  be  his  policy 
to  keep  knit  together  in  his  interests.  Yet  might  I  argue  a 
little,  on  natural  principle,  to  show  a  fair  foe  that  the  breach  of 
the  old  statute  was  not  so  monstrous  as  its  observance.  As  to 
James’s  share  in  the  matter,  he  should  further  be  informed  that 
his  majesty  wished  it  not  ;  that  he  advised  against  it  ;  but  that 
when  Tyrconnel’s  packed  parliament  called  on  him  to  approve 
their  vote,  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  refuse  ;  and  by  that  re¬ 
fusal  estrange  from  him  the  only  men  who  were  disposed  to  stand 
by  his  side  in  a  case  of  extremity.” 

“  With  eveu  less  zeal,  Mr.  Evelyn,  do  we  defend  the  taking 
Church  revenues  out  of  the  hands  of  your  clergyman,”  continued 
Sarsfield.  “  The  question  is  not  if  it  be  equitable,  but  if  it  be 
politic,  and,  above  all,  consistent  with  the  royal  proclamations 
issi  *?d.  As  to  the  churches,  he  has  publicly  commanded  them 
to  be  restored  to  you.  Only  that  our  reverend  guides,  having 
once  got  their  old  roofs  over  their  heads,  stoutly  refuse  to  yield 
possession  of  their  own,  even  at  their  king’s  command — God 
bless  them  1” 

“  And  now  a  brass  sixpence  for  your  remaining  objection,  sir  99 


m 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


resumed  Hamilton.  “  What  can  King  James  do  ?  If  you  all 
stand  up  to  keep  gold  and  silver  out  of  his  hands,  the  tinker  and 
brazier  must  supply  his  mint  :  will  you  blame  him  for  being  the 
poor  man  you  have  made  him  ?  But  farewell,  Mr.  Evelyn. 
You  still  look  obstinate,  I  fear.  Well,  sir,  I  bind  myself  to 
pray  for  your  conversion.  Gentlemen,  with  you — we  meet  at 
the  castle,  General  Sarsfield  ?” 

“  At  the  castle,  at  nine,”  his  host  answered  ;  and  Sarsfield 
and  Evelyn  were  left  together. 

“Now,  sir,  what  leads  you  hither  ?” 

“  In  the  first  place,  General  Sarsfield,  I  am  here  to  throw 
myself,  as  an  open  enemy  of  your  cause,  upon  your  private  and 
honorable  protection.” 

“You  have  it,  young  man  ;  as  readily  as  it  is  boldly  sought. 
Nor  in  forgetfulness,  either,  that  you  are  the  beloved  friend  of 
the  young  M’Donnell,  whose  father  and  I  have  known  each  other. 
And  have  you  not  said  your  business  concerned  him  as  well  as 
yourself  ?” 

Evelyn  promptly  acquainted  Sarsfield  with  the  double  alliance 
that  had  once  been  proposed  between  him  and  Edmund  M’ Don¬ 
nell  ;  the  death  of  Esther,  and  the  consequent  despair  of  Ed¬ 
mund  ;  the  scene  at  the  Strip  of  Burne  ;  the  disappearance  of 
M’Donnell  and  his  sister ;  the  supposed  death  of  the  one,  and 
wretched  situation  of  the  other  ;  his  suspicions  that,  in  a  degrad¬ 
ing  disguise,  she  had  attached  herself  to  some  part  of  king 
James’s  army,  but,  he  especially  feared,  to  the  lowest  part  of  it, 
the  Rapparees.  Evelyn  concluded  by  passionately  requesting 
that  Sarsfield  would  exert  himself  to  discover  where  and  how  poor 
Eva  might  be  approached.  For  the  sake  of  his  interest  in  Ed¬ 
mund  M’Donnell,  Evelyn  ventured,  he  said,  to  urge  this  prayer  ; 
for  the  sake  of  his  memory,  and  that  of  his  father — for  the  sake 
of  the  young  creature  devoted  to  ruin — in  the  name  of  manliness, 
bravery,  and  charity,  he  besought  him  to  grant  it. 

Sarsfield  heard  him  like  a  man  who,  although  plunged  into  the 
stern  business  of  the  world,  had  not  forgotten  the  sympathy  of 
man’s  heart  for  man.  When,  towards  the  end  of  his  appeal, 
poor  Evelyn,  overpowered  by  a  return  of  his  wretched  feeliugs 
grew  warm  and  earnest  ;  when  his  voice  faltered  and  his  hands 
trembled  ;  when  he  wept ;  the  general,  seemed  strougly  touched 
with  the  young  man’s  energy  of  sorrow. 

“  Truly  did  you  argue,”  he  said  kindly,  u  that  the  confidence 
you  came  to  give  would  insure  my  interest  in  your  sad  case. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


431 


We  are  friends,  Mr.  Evelyn,  however  we  may  stand  to-morrow 
in  the  field.  I  will  do  my  best  to  save  and  protect  the  daughter 
of  my  old  friend  ;  the  sister  of  my  young  protege,  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Evelyn.  Be  you  indeed  so  sure  that  her  present  fate  is  such  as 
you  intimate  ?  M’Donnell,”  he  went  on  musing,  and  as  if 
struck  with  a  sudden  thought — “  Miss  M’Donnell  ;  let  me 
see — ” 

“  Eva  M’ Donnell,  sir.” 

“  Ay,”  continued  Sarsfield  ;  “of  a  lady  called  McDonnell  I 
believe  1  have  lately  heard — if  indeed,  I  have  not  seen  her.  Is 
she  not  young  ?  and  pretty,  withal  ?” 

“  Young,  and  most  beautiful,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  Oh  !  I  cry  your  mercy,  sir,”  half  smiling  at  the  energy  of  a 
description  he  had  required  as  matter  of  fact.  “  I  say  nothing 
positive  ;  nothing  to  give  you  a  hope  that  may  be  disappointed. 
I  can  know  nothing  of  the  maiden,  and  therefore  should  venture 
no  guess.  Yet,  rest  with  me,  here,  a  few  hours,  until  it  is  time 
to  attend  the  king’s  evening  party,  at  the  castle.  Then,  in  all 
confidence  and  honor,  come  with  me  :  foe  and  stranger  as  you 
are,  and  strange  as  may  be  the  proceeding,  we  can,  perhaps,  find 
means  to  introduce  you  where,  if  you  use  your  eyes,  the  lady  I 
mean  will,  in  all  probability,  appear.  Meantime,  be  my  guest, 
and  let  us  speak  of  what  in  honor  we  may.” 

Evelyn  readily  complied.  The  soldier  foes  pledged  each  other’s 
health,  and  spent  the  evening  in  free  discourse,  until  the  hour  of 
nine  ;  when  Sarsfield  took  Evelyn’s  arm,  and  walked  him  to  the 
castle. 

As  they  passed  into  the  upper  court,  or  yard,  Evelyn  could 
perceive  that  the  guards  at  the  outside  and  inner  gates,  and  all 
the  soldiers  in  the  guard-rooms,  were,  to  a  man,  French.  Sars¬ 
field  caught  his  eye  noting  this,  and  observed  : 

“Ay,  thus  it  is,  Mr.  Evelyn  ;  these  haughty  foreigners  push 
us  aside  on  our  own  thresholds  :  what  think  you  ?  In  mounting 
guard,  here,  on  his  majesty’s  person,  they  have  been  heard  to 
declare,  that  they  will  obey  no  commands  but  those  of  their 
petit-maitre  general,  Lauzan  ;  that,  in  fact,  they  are  not  the 
soldiers  of  the  king  in  whose  service  they  have  emoarked  I 
Credit  me,  sir,  whenever  you  are  able  to  obtain  an  advantage 
over  us,  it  will  be  on  account  of  the  bickerings  and  divisions 
caused  by  these  fellows.  King  James  began  his  Irish  wars  by 
refusing  an  army  of  twenty  thousand  Frenchmen  from  Louis, 
Baying,  he  would  succeed  by  his  own  subjects,  or  not  at  all 


432 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Would  to  heaven  he  had  been  consistent  enough  to  reject  the 
paltry  re-enforcements  from  France  he  has  lately  accepted  ;  the 
five  thousand,  last  year,  under  Rosen,  and  now  about  the  same 
number,  under  Lauzan  !  Whatever  we  have  done  well,  was 
done  before  they  came.  Whatever  we  may  do  well,  will  be  done 
without  them.” 

Traversing  other  apartments  of  the  castle,  Sarsfield  led  Eve 
lyn  into  the  spacious  and  princely  hall,  since  altered  and  fitted 
up,  in  1783,  at  the  institution  of  the  only  national  order  in  Ire¬ 
land,  and  thence  called  St.  Patrick’s  Hall.  Here  was  a  joyous 
blaze  of  light,  and  a  numerous,  brave,  and  brilliant  company. 
All  the  beauty  of  Ireland,  the  noble  dames  and  gentle  damsels 
belonging  to  the  Irish  aristocracy,  collected  round  James  from 
town  and  country,  were  grouped  about  the  extensive  apartment, 
sitting  or  promenading,  and  listening,  with  a  gracious  air,  to  the 
novel  and  fascinating  style  of  adulation  imported  by  their  French 
gallants  from  the  court  of  Louis  XIY.  In  the  irresistible  pres¬ 
ence  of  the  newcomers,  the  poor  native  youth  were  forgotten 
and  neglected  by  their  fair  countrywomen,  and  might  be  seen 
standing  or  striding  about  in  that  stiff  awkwardness,  meant  to 
be  dignity,  but  which  was  really  the  result  of  a  mixed  feeling  of 
inferiority  and  of  chagrin.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  an  Irish 
gallant,  whose  strength  of  mind,  or  whose  self-conceit,  enabled 
him  to  keep  up  his  confidence,  was  successful  in  engaging  the 
ear  and  smiles  of  some  maiden,  above  the  influence  of  the  general 
infatuation  ;  or  of  engrossing  some  rustic  beauty,  to  whom  atten¬ 
tion  of  any  kind  proved  new  and  welcome,  and  whose  experience 
had  not  yet  called  up  a  squeamish  taste,  or  a  power  of  nice  dis¬ 
tinction.  Of  the  former  class  of  successful  squires  of  dames,  on 
his  own  ground,  was  Hamilton,  whom  Evelyn  at  once  detected 
sauntering  where  he  liked,  amid  the  crowded  competition  of  the 
brilliant  hall,  with  an  air  of  which  the  very  ease  and  assurance 
were,  perhaps,  his  best  passport  to  the  success  that  almost  in 
every  quarter  awaited  him  from  smiling  eyes  and  coral  lips,  and 
cheeks  that  blushed  so  prettily,  forsooth,  it  were  pity  not  to  give 
them  gentle  cause  for  the  sweet  suffusion. 

Towards  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  at  either  side  of  an  open- 
arched  entrance  into  another  gayly-lighted  apartment,  Sarsfield 
pointed  out  to  Evelyn  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  his  brother,  the 
Grand  Prior,  the  Duke  of  Powis,  the  Earls  of  Melford,  Dover, 
Seaforth,  and  Abercorn  ;  the  two  Lords  Howard  ;  the  Marquis 
of  Abbeville  ;  the  Bishops  of  Chester  and  Galway  ;  some  dozen 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


433 


of  other  nobles,  English  and  Irish  ;  a  crowd  of  baronets,  chiefly 
from  England,  mixed  up  with  French  and  Irish  general-officers, 
and  a  sufficient  portion  of  ecclesiastics,  in  cassocks,  shaveu 
crowns,  or  scraps  of  black  skull-caps.  Among  the  baronets  was 
one  remarkable  gentleman,  who  at  first  attracted,  and  then 
amused,  Evelyn.  He  was  middle-sized,  between  sixty  and 
seventy,  but  of  good,  full,  round  muscle,  and  straight  as  a  gate¬ 
post  ;  wearing  a  dishevelled  tie-wig,  pushed  back,  or  else  made 
not  to  come  more  forward  than  the  crown  of  his  head.  His  coat 
was  of  the  oldest  known  cut,  meeting,  without  a  collar,  the  edge 
of  his  jaws,  and  accommodating  itself  to  their  pendant  inden¬ 
tures,  with  profusely  broad  skirts,  much  gathered  behind,  point¬ 
ing  out  stiffly  in  front,  and  reaching  nearly  to  the  middle  of  his 
sturdy  legs,  with  ample  sleeves,  still  more  ample  cuffs,  and  gaping 
packet-holes,  placed  far  below  the  hips.  The  half-seen  legs 
boasted  carnation  stockings,  clocked  half-way  up  ;  the  feet  were 
furnished  with  open-mouthed  shoes,  eclipsing  the  ankle,  propped 
by  wooden  heels,  and  having  square  toes  of,  at  the  least,  four 
inches  across.  Then,  his  face  well  suited  this  dress.  When  seen 
in  profile,  it  was  a  succession  of  concave  lines,  from  the  forehead 
to  the  tip  of  the  chin,  looking  not  unlike  the  segment  of  a  huge 
griddle-cake,  out  of  the  edge  of  which  a  hungry  boy  has  taken  a 
succession  of  mouthfuls  :  first,  a  bite  for  the  line  of  the  nose  ; 
then  one  for  the  indent  between  nose  and  upper  lip  ;  next  a  good 
and  curious  one  for  the  ever-open  mouth,  displaying  toothless 
gums  ;  lastly,  one  for  the  curve  beneath  the  under  lip.  Not 
omitting  to  say  that  the  chin,  with  its  lower  lip,  jutted  out,  in  a 
straight  line,  a  full  inch  beyond  the  upper  maxillary  :  while  from 
its  point  fell  a  sweep  of  fat  jaw,  that  at  last  was  hid  under  the 
waving  mazes  of  his  tie-wig. 

Thus  appointed,  by  nature  and  art,  the  ancient  knight-baronet 
strode  about,  his  two  hands  thrust  at  arms’  length,  into  his  pro¬ 
found  pocket-holes  ;  a  roundish,  pot-crowned  hat,  with  a  most 
picturesque  ruggedness  of  outline  round  the  brim,  squeezed  under 
his  right  arm  ;  his  pig-tail  tie  curling  playfully  over  his  left 
shoulder  ;  a  long  sword,  worn  horizontally,  and  sticking  out  full 
two  feet  behind.  Thus  he  strode  here  and  there,  smiling  an 
eternal  smile  with  his  gaping,  gum-tinged  mouth  ;  his  entire  face 
simpering ;  a  certain  racy  air  of  content,  pride,  and  confidence 
displayed  in  his  whole  appearance  and  action  ;  and  going  up  to 
every  one  who  would  listen  to  him — or,  when  repelled  at  every 
side,  pacing  backward  and  forward  before  the  open  alcove  ;  and 

19 


434 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


repeating,  under  every  change  of  circumstance,  one  or  two 
phrases,  that  at  once  gave  insight  into  the  cause  of  his  happiness, 
and  into  his  extreme  simplicity  of  character,  such  as — 

“  Ay,  sir  ;  ay,  my  lord  ;  ay,  Sir  Peter  ;  this  be,  indeed,  a 
king  ;  your  true  king  of  old  England.  Your  true  son  of  a  hun¬ 
dred  kings.  His  father’s  child,  my  lord  duke.  That  loves  us  ; 
that  is  sweet  and  benign  to  us  ;  that  will  fight  for  us  ;  that  will 
lead  us  home  again,  to  old  England,  and  the  good  county  oi 
Norfolk.  Ay,  my  lords  ;  ay,  sirs  ;  ay,  gentle  ladies.  This  be 
our  own  sweet  liege  ;  our  own  prince  of  kings.” 

The  eulogist  was  poor  Sir  Thomas  Dereham,  or  Doreham,  of 
the  county  which  he  has  himself  mentioned,  who  followed  over 
the  world,  the  fortunes  of  James  II.,  and  who,  disappointed  of 
the  happy  return  home  on  which  he  so  confidently  reckoned, 
afterwards  died  at  Florence  of  a  broken  heart.  His  liege  rev¬ 
erence  for  his  “  legitimate”  monarch  warmed  into  strong  personal 
affection,  which  James  repaid  with,  at  all  times,  a  show  of  kind¬ 
ness,  that  merited  Sir  Thomas’s  individual  praises  ;  but  was 
rather  in  contrast  to  the  severe  hauteur  that  more  generally 
characterized  the  fallen  king  towards  the  rest  of  his  subjects. 
More  time,  it  is  freely  admitted,  has  been  spent  on  this  single 
sketch  than  is  allowable,  away  from  the  progress  of  our  story. 
But  the  old  gentleman  happened  to  interest  us  as  much  as  he  did 
Evelyn  ;  and  perhaps  the  reader  will  not  feel  tired,  or  displeased, 
thus  to  get,  incidentally,  a  glimpse  of  a  character  that  may  help 
to  afford  some  additional  illustration  of  the  time,  persons,  and 
events,  now  under  notice. 

Evelyn  was  called  back  from  his  excursive  duty  of  Sir 
Thomas,  by  having  his  attention  directed  by  Sarsfield  into  the 
inner  apartment,  and  fixed  on  the  persons  of  two  old  men,  the 
one  wearing  full  ducal  robes,  the  other  clad  in  the  undress  of  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest,  who,  from  time  to  time,  crossed  the  open 
arch,  seemingly  in  grave  and  earnest  conversation. 

“  My  Lord  Duke  of  Tyrconnel,  our  Irish  lord-lieutenant,  with 
nis  reverend  chaplain,”  said  Sarsfield  ;  “  a  man — perhaps  I  might 
say,  two  men — who  have  done,  by  hot  and  bad  counsels,  more 
injury  to  King  James’s  cause  in  Ireland,  than  prayers,  or  even 
blows,  are  certain  to  amend.  They  await,  in  that  inner  cham¬ 
ber,  the  entrance,  from  his  closet,  of  the  king,  who  is  also  attend¬ 
ed  there  by  a  ghostly  adviser,  of  whom,  mayhap,  you  may  have 
heard — Father  Petre. 

“  And  do  you  not  get  a  glance,  at  the  left  side  of  the  chamber 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


435 


of  some  gayly-attired  ladies,  half  hidden  by  the  cross-wall  of  the 
arch  ?  There  sits  my  Lady  Tyrconnel,  surrounded  by  her  dam¬ 
sels  of  honor,  also  awaiting  the  king’s  appearance,  by  whom, 
alone,  her  ladyship  consents  to  be  led  into  the  hall,  to  meet  her 
fair  guests  of  the  evening.  But,  hark  !  she  will  not  now  have  to 
tarry  long.” 

As  Sarsfield  spoke,  the  ladies,  who  formed  the  subject  of  his 
remark,  got  into  a  graceful  bustle,  and  came  a  little  nearer  to 
the  open  arch.  Tyrconnel  and  the  ecclesiastic  suddenly  drew 
back,  as  they  crossed  the  inner  apartment  from  the  other  side  ; 
guards  closed  the  very  remote  wall.  In  a  few  seconds  James 
approached,  from  some  unseen  side-door,  followed  by  a  little 
parchment-looking  man,  the  place  where  Lady  Tyrconnel  stood  ; 
offered  his  hand  with  the  old  kingly  air  ;  and  presently  led 
through  the  archway,  his  dimpling  and  smiling  hostess,  attended 
by  a  number  of  young  and  beautiful  maids  of  honor.  Father 
Petre  followed  close  in  James’s  steps  ;  Tyrconnel  an  his  rever¬ 
end  companion  followed.  As  the  king  passed  into  the  hall,  Sir 
Thomas  Doreham,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  bowed  repeat¬ 
edly,  and  mumbled  many  raptures  ;  the  nobles  and  generals  at 
each  side  made  their  salutations  ;  and,  as  a  burst  of  music  came 
from  a  gallery  near  to  where  Evelyn  stood,  all  in  the  hall — 
gallants,  dames  and  damsels — all  stood  up,  or  else  became,  as 
they  promenaded  about,  fixed  in  attitudes  of  attention. 

James  continued  to  walk  by  the  side  of  the  hall  opposite  to 
Evelyn,  still  attending  Lady  Tyrconnel,  and  noticing,  with  old- 
fashioned  and  imposing  condescension,  the  different  groups  that 
stood  awaiting  that  honor,  while  the  lady  gave  the  welcome  of 
a  great  hostess  to  humbler  guests.  Evelyn,  whose  whole  obser¬ 
vation,  notwithstanding  the  state  of  his  feelings,  became  fixed  on 
James,  remarked  that  his  dress  differed,  on  this  occasion,  as 
widely  from  that  in  which  he  had  first  seen  him  at  Johnstown, 
as  it  did  from  the  courtly  and  peaceful  costume  that  would  best 
have  become  the  scene  and  situation.  The  deposed  monarch 
wore,  indeed,  a  suit  that  he  was  fond,  and,  perhaps,  vain  of 
assuming,  inasmuch  as  it  served  to  call  up  the  recollections  of  all 
beholders  to  the  bravery,  spirit,  and  wisdom  he  had  evinced, 
when  it  was  his  official  uniform  as  Lord  High  Admiral  of  Eng¬ 
land.  It  consisted  of  a  bright,  plain  breast-piece,  coming  down 
to  his  hips,  interrupted  and  edged  by  a  broad  scarlet  sash,  folded, 
wrought,  and  fringed  with  gold,  and  crossed  obliquely  by  a  piece 
of  mazarine  blue  silk  (not  riband)  also  folded — the  emblem, 


436 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


according  to  the  fashion  of  his  day,  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter  : 
the  sleeves  were  of  stiff,  orange-colored  silk,  flowered  in  gold, 
reaching  a  little  below  the  elbows  ;  white  satin  thence  puffing 
out  to  the  wrists,  which  were  clouded  in  point  ruffles.  From 
under  his  breast-piece,  broad  skirts  of  blue  cloth  folded  over,  as 
far  down  as  his  knees.  White  silk  stockings  and  shoes,  a  peri¬ 
wig  flowing,  at  either  side,  to  the  breast,  and  the  tail  of  a  point 
neckcloth,  falling  quite  as  low,  completed  the  honorable  and 
memorable  suit,  of  which,  so  far  as  it  becomes  a  man,  the  wearer 
could  not,  after  all,  be  too  proud. 

Turning  to  the  second  side  of  the  hall,  James  approached 
Sarsfield,  bent  his  head  in  return  to  his  bow,  and  that  of  Evelyn, 
and  was  passing  on,  when  his  eye  turned  on  Evelyn,  and,  check¬ 
ing  himself,  he  said  : 

“An  officer  of  your  horse,  General  Sarsfield  ?” 

“  No,  my  liege  ;  Captain  Evelyn — Mr.  Evelyn,  I  would  say, 
an  officer  of  the  Enniskillen  dragoons,  who — •” 

“  Ay  ? — say  you  so  ?  Why  have  we  not  received  intimation 
that  there  was  business  for  this  evening.  Your  ladyship’s  pardon 
— allons.” 

With  a  signal  to  Sarsfield,  he  walked  on,  completed  his  round, 
returned,  alone,  to  the  general,  and  resumed  : 

“  To  our  closet,  both  of  you.”  Then,  leading  the  way,  with¬ 
out  further  ceremony,  Sarsfield  and  Evelyn,  equally  taken  by 
surprise,  found  themselves,  in  a  few  minutes,  in  James’s  private 
closet,  accompanied  by  Father  Petre,  the  French  ambassador, 
Count  D’Avoux,  and  a  few  other  persons  whom  the  king  had 
met  on  his  way,  and  motioned  to  attend  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

“  And  now,  sir,”  said  James  to  Evelyn,  the  moment  the  closet- 
door  had  closed,  “  your  business — your  mission  from  our  rebel 
subjects.” 

“  May  it  please  your  majesty,”  answered  Evelyn,  in  confusion, 
“  I  am  charged  with  no  mission  :  I  but — ” 

“Your  business,  then,  of  whatever  nature  it  may  be,  or  how¬ 
soever  called,  and  briefly,  sir.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  437 

“  My  business,  here,  does  not  at  all  concern  your  majesty — is 
not  of  a  public  kind — is  not — ” 

“  How.  General  Sarsfield  ?  What  means  this  ?”  interrupted 
James. 

“  Sir,”  replied  Sarsfield,  “  the  stripling  speaks  truth.” 

“  How  is  it,  then,  I  ask  ?  What  brings  to  our  court  a  rebel 
and  a  traitor,  who  hath  no  business  here  ?  What  practices  be 
these  ?” 

“Under  your  majesty’s  favor,  none  that  shrink  from  inquiry, 
or  merit  your  majesty’s  displeasure.  I  had  hoped  I  was  above 
suspicion  of  such.” 

“  Sarsfield,  you  are.  But  inform  us,  quickly  and  briefly.” 

“  Your  majesty  beholds  in  Mr.  Evelyn  a  person  on  whose 
account,  and  that  of  a  friend  of  his,  I  once  received  at  the 
Johnstown  camp,  your  majesty’s  gracious  instructions  touching — ” 

“  I  remember  some  slight  matter  of  the  kind  ;  a  question  of 
Galmoy’s  right  to  take  the  life  of  a  mad  stripling  and  his  friend 
— well,  well.” 

“  Since  then,  that  loyal  subject  of  your  majesty  hath,  by  a 
violent  chance  of  war,  been  separated  from  this,  his  bosom 
friend,  and  is,  perchance,  dead.  His  sister,  a  beautiful  lady,  also 
disappears  ;  is  supposed,  in  a  fit  of  distraction,  to  play  the  part 
of  heroine  in  your  majesty’s  service  ;  and  is  now  anxiously 
sought  after  by  her  betrothed  husband,  Mr.  Evelyn,  who,  foe  as 
he  is,  singly  approaches  your  majesty’s  court,  and,  in  entire  reli¬ 
ance  on  your  majesty’s  respect  and  tenderness  of  the  private 
concerns  of  private  affection,  has  had  no  fear  to  claim  my  service 
in  furtherance  of  his  sad  inquiry.” 

“  And  you,  Sarsfield,  are  warrant  for  him  and  his  story,  his 
proceedings  and  intentions  ?”  The  general  assented. 

11  Then  let  him  have  no  cause  to  repent  his  confidence  in  our 
humane  feelings,  which — though  in  the  clash  of  unnatural  politics 
we  have  seen  them  overlooked — still  find  place  in  our  bosom.” 

Sarsfield  knew  he  had  dexterously  touched  the  string  that 
would  vibrate  in  unison  with  his  purpose,  and  was  prepared  for 
the  allusion  of  the  outraged  and  deserted  father. 

“  It  only  appearing  to  us  marvellous,  and  unnatural,”  resumed 
James,  turning  his  glance  on  Evelyn,  “  that  a  gallant,  who  can 
so  readily  give  us  credit  for  humanity,  and  who  chooses  his  lady 
love  from  amongst  the  daughters  of  our  loyal  subjects,  should 
himself  stand  up  a  rebel  against  our  crown  and  privilege.” 

Evelyn  did  not  venture  a  reply.  Sarsfield  spoke  for  him. 


438 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Touching  that  very  point,  my  liege,  Mr.  Evelyn  and  I  have 
held  all  honorable  discourse.  Credit  me,  while  his  prejudices 
Seem  but  of  a  mild  cast,  whatever  reason  she  may  bring  to  rec- 
commend  them,  he  upholds  to  be  grounded  on  strong  con¬ 
viction.” 

“Seldom  has  it  chanced,”  continued  James,  “that  we  have 
been  afforded  the  opportunity  of  demanding  from  an  enemy,  face 
to  face,  his  reason  for  hostility.  Now  would  it  please  us  to  hear 
your  friend  speak  his.  Alas  !  we  are  reduced  to  the  extremity  of 
wishing  to  vindicate  our  blackened  character  to  the  meanest 
subject  whom  slander  may  have  misled  to  rebel  against  us. 
Speak,  sir  ;  tell  the  reasons  you  suppose  you  have  to  draw  your 
sword  against  your  sovereign.  Tell  them,  and  he  will,  himself, 
condescend  to  answer  you.” 

Evelyn,  through  mixed  confusion,  and  the  fear  of  a  fate  more 
serious  than  befell  Gil  Bias  with  the  archbishop,  continued 
silent. 

“  Speak  out,  man  !”  resumed  James.  “Saints  and  martyrs  I 
have  you  fear  that  after  the  plighting  our  royal  word  for  your 
safety,  and  after  the  commanding  you,  with  our  own  lips,  to  tell 
the  blunt  truth,  peril  may  attend  your  boldest  speech  ?” 

Denying  any  such  apprehension,  and  thus  compelled  to  say 
something,  Evelyn  at  once  resolved  to  answer,  manfully  and 
honorably,  the  strange  claim  made  upon  him  ;  and  accordingly 
said,  that,  while  in  the  early  stages  of  the  late  civil  commotions, 
he  but  wavered  in  his  opinion  of  a  ground  for  just  resistance, 
his  majesty’s  abdication  had  of  itself  seemed  to  release  him  from 
allegiance. 

At  this  James  was  taking  fire,  when  he  caught  the  fixed,  cold, 
and  monitory  eye  of  Father  Petre.  Checking  himself,  he  turned 
round,  a  moment,  as  if  fully  to  master  his  temper  ;  and  at  length 
said  : 

“  Abdication  is  giving  up  a  right  in  possession,  by  one’s  own 
free  act  and  will.  I  was  driven  from  my  throne  by  threat, 
positive  violence,  and  the  necessity  of  self-preservation.  And 
when  those  who  so  drove  me  away,  found  me  absent,  they  called 
the  consequences  of  their  own  well-planned  measures,  my  willing 
•ct  and  deed  ;  their  cruelty,  my  weakness  ;  my  extremity,  my 
choice.  Thus,  from  the  first,  their  assertion  of  their  right  to  my 
crown  was  a  deliberate  falsehood,  for  the  circumstantial  framing 
of  which  they  had  contrived,  beforehand,  a  painstaking  plot. 

“  Had  I  abdicated,  I  must  have  expressed  upon  some  occasion, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


439 


or  to  some  person,  my  pleasure  so  to  do.  Whereas,  I  left  be¬ 
hind  me,  at  the  very  moment  I  was  first  compelled  to  leave 
London,  my  avowals  of  the  necessitous  circumstances  that  forced 
me  into  an  absence  ;  my  protests  against  them  ;  and  my  firm  re¬ 
solves  to  labor,  under  every  change  of  fortune,  for  the  restoration 
of  my  crown,  and  the  happiness  and  satisfaction  of  my  people. 
Witness  my  letter  to  the  lords  and  others  of  the  privy  council  ; 
my  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Feversham,  my  general  ;  and  afterwards, 
various  other  letters,  messages,  and  declarations,  to  different 
public  bodies. 

“  Upon  the  sudden  news  of  the  landing  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  I  was  deserted  by  all  upon  whom  I  could  have  placed 
reliance.  The  men  who  grew  into  greatness  under  my  love  and 
confidence — the  children — but,  pass  we  that.  My  very  army  I 
could  not  trust.  Could  I  have  done  so,  I  would  have  had  one 
good  blow  for  it. 

“  In  such  a  situation,  what  was  to  have  been  my  course  ? 
Durst  I,  with  any  respect  for  the  first  instinct  of  nature,  have 
awaited  the  approach  of  my  bad  son-in-law,  with  his  bad  advis¬ 
ers  ?  The  sense  of  the  indignities  put  forth  in  his  proclamation, 
and  the  just  apprehension  of  further  attempts  on  our  person,  by 
those  who  already  endeavored  to  murder  our  reputation  by  in¬ 
famous  calumnies  (as  if — ”  His  graceful  delivery,  for  which  he 
was  remarkable,  here  failed  him  ;  his  words  faltered,  and  his  lip 
quivered — “  as  if  we  had  been  capable  of  supposing  a  Prince  of 
Wales) — calumnies  incomparably  more  injurious  than  the  destroy¬ 
ing  our  person  itself ;  together  with  a  serious  reflection  on  a  say¬ 
ing  of  our  royal  father,  1  that  there  is  little  distance  between  the 
prisons  and  the  graves  of  princes ’ — these  were  some  of  our 
reasons  for  deeming  it  a  duty  to  attend  to  the  law  of  nature, 
and  save  life,  at  least,  from  the  hands  of  a  near  relation,  and  for 
the  benefit  of  our  subjects. 

“  After  my  obstruction  on  the  river,”  he  went  on,  speaking 
now  as  if  to  himself,  “  where  our  royal  person  was  rudely  handled 
by  some  of  the  meanest  of  mankind,  and  after  my  return  to 
Whitehall,  I  might  have  expected  better  usage  from  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  in  consequence  of  what  I  had  writ  to  him  by  my  Lord 
Feversham.  But  instead  of  an  answer  such  as  I  might  have 
hoped,  what  was  I  to  expect,  after  the  usage  I  received,  by  his 
makiug  the  said  Earl  a  prisoner,  against  the  practice  and  the 
law  of  nations  ?  The  sending  his  own  foreign  guards,  at  eleven 
o’clock  at  night,  to  take  possession  of  the  posts  at  Whitehall, 


440 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


without  advertising  me  in  the  least  manner  of  it  ?  The  sending 
me,  at  one  of  the  clock,  after  midnight,  when  I  was  in  bed,  an 
order  to  be  gone  out  of  my  own  palace,  before  twelve  that  same 
morning  ?  After  all  this,  what  could  I  hope  from  him,  at  whose 
hands  a  sovereign  prince,  and  uncle,  and  a  father,  could  meet 
with  no  better  entertainment  ?  How  could  I  hope  to  be  safe 
from  him  who  had  tried  to  paint  me  as  black  as  hell  to  my  own 
people  and  the  world,  adopting  in  his  declaration  all  the  infamous 
charges  against  me  ?  My  English  guards  taken  away,  and  a 
Dutch  guard  accompanying  me  to  Rochester,  whither  I  had 
desired  to  remove  ?  Thus  wras  the  royal  martyr,  our  father, 
encompassed  about,  until  a  proper  time  arrived  for  the  taking 
his  life  as  well  as  crown.  Tims  I  would  not  brook  to  remain 
when  liberty  offered.  I  was  born  free,  and  desired  to  remain  so. 
Therefore  the  world  need  not  be  surprised  at  my  withdrawing 
myself,  a  second  time,  from  Rochester. 

“And  now,  stripling,  if  you  have  truly  stated  your  only  or 
chief  cause  for  rebellion,  to  arise  from  the  abdicating,  by  us,  the 
throne  of  our  ancestors,  return  to  those  who  helped  you  to  such 
a  reason,  and  tell  them,  that  from  the  sovereign  prince  they  have 
caused  you  to  wrong,  and  disposed  you  to  destroy,  you  have 
heard  his  own  apology.  Tell  them  that  to  yourself,  an  undistin¬ 
guished  subject,  he  has,  in  all  the  humility  that  becomes  his 
humbled  situation,  and  in  all  the  earnestness  that  becomes  an 
injured  man  and  a  Christian  king,  vouchsafed  to  vindicate  him¬ 
self,  and  the  infant  son  who  suffers  with  him,  from  their  cruel 
slander.  And  so,  farewell.  And  the  happiest  conscience  that 
Heaven  is  willing  to  allow,  attend  you  on  the  day  when  you  draw 
your  young  sword  against  us.” 

Motioning  to  Sarsfield,  he  turned  away.  The  general  led 
Evelyn  from  the  closet  ;  our  friend,  much  surprised  at  the  sud¬ 
den  command  of  temper  with  which  James  had  made  his  state¬ 
ment,  after  the  imperious  bursts  of  spirit  that  had  marked  the 
opening  of  the  interview. 

They  had  scarcely  passed  the  archway  into  the  great  hall, 
when  the  deposed  king,  attended  by  all  who  had  followed  him  to 
his  closet,  trod  in  thhr  footsteps,  and  advanced  to  where  Lady 
Tyrconnel  sat,  surrounded  by  her  beautiful  maidens  of  honor ; 
speaking,  at  each  side,  as  he  walked  along  : 

“  Look  not  so  grave,  lords  and  dames,  gallants  and  gentle 
damsels  ;  here  has  been  nothing  to  disturb  the  joy  of  our  meet¬ 
ing  ;  nothing  to  turn  the  red  rose  white  on  fair  maidens’  cheeks, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


441 


or  cloud  the  brows  of  our  zealous  and  loving  nobles.  The  song, 
my  lady  of  Tyrconnel  !  That  quaint  song  which,  upon  an 
evening  before,  one  of  your  beauties  sang  us  to  the  wild  music 
of  your  native  harp.  Flutters  the  gentle  bird  now  at  your 
side  ?” 

After  a  befitting  answer,  there  was  some  motion  amoug  the 
crowd  of  beautiful  attendants  ;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  prelud¬ 
ing  tinkle  of  a  harp  was  heard.  Evelyn,  his  heart  agitated  even 
whilst  James  spoke  the  last  words,  now  started  at  the  sound, 
and,  grasping  Sarsfield’s  arm,  looked  towards  the  blooming 
group.  But  the  performer  was  completely  hidden  from  his  view 
by  the  clustering  around  her  of  her  sister  maidens,  and  also  by 
the  closing  in  of  all  who  were  in  that  quarter  of  the  room,  in 
order  to  evince  their  interest  in  the  pastime  recommended  by  the 
praises  of  royalty. 

But,  as  the  song  proceeded,  as  the  clear  and  powerful,  though 
wild  voice  rose  to  the  roof  of  the  spacious  hall,  fully  conveying 
the  words,  and  giving  a  soul  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  native 
music,  Evelyn  could  no  longer  doubt  who  was  the  songstress.  It 
was  one  of  Carolan’s  best  airs,  composed,  at  Eva’s  request,  by 
the  shores  of  Red  Bay,  set  to  words  of  Edmund’s  writing  ;  and 
often  had  he  heard  it  from  Eva’s  lips.  At  this  certainty,  his 
heart  swelled  and  shrank  again  ;  his  breath  failed  him,  his  eyes 
swam,  his  limbs  shook  ;  and,  uttering  a  hasty  exclamation,  he 
stepped  forward  towards  the  group,  when  Sarsfield  checked  him, 
saying  : 

“  For  God’s  sake,  no — not  now — compose  yourself  !  Why, 
you  are  pale,  and  you  tremble  1  Be  a  mau !” 

As,  amid  a  deep  hush  of  its  admiring  hearers,  the  song  con¬ 
tinued  to  ring  through  the  hall,  one  of  its  most  thrilling  notes 
was  as  if  caught  up  by  a  trumpet  in  the  courtyard  of  the  castle. 
Nearly  at  the  same  moment,  a  roll  of  kettle-drums  was  heard, 
and  guns  were  fired,  far  and  near,  as  if  from  different  points 
around  the  city.  The  voice  of  the  songstress  broke  off  ;  screams 
escaped  many  of  the  ladies,  thus  taken  by  surprise  during  so 
profound  a  pause,  and  while  their  sensibilities  were  excited  to 
the  utmost.  Some  nobles  and  officers  started,  and  laid  their 
hands  on  their  swords  ;  and  James  walked  rapidly  up  the  hall, 
followed  by  his  courtiers  and  generals,  to  meet,  the  next  minute, 
the  gentleman  whose  business  it  was  to  approach  him  with  the 
intelligence. 

“  Well,  sir,  the  news  ?”  he  asked,  ere  they  had  met. 

19* 


442 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Captain  Farlow,  who  has  just  galloped  in,  waits  to  com* 
municate  it  to  your  majesty.” 

“  Admit  Captain  Farlow,  without  ceremony.”  The  messenger 
rapidly  retired. 

As  the  king,  accompanied  by  the  lordly  and  martial  crowd 
who  clustered  around  him,  had  left  Lady  Tyrconnel  and  her 
female  group,  Evelyn’s  eyes  again  flew  in  quest  of  Eva  ;  now 
she  was  at  last  visible  to  his  view.  Her  affrighted  companions, 
dividing  and  shrinking  at  either  side,  had  left  alone,  still  seated 
at  the  harp,  the  syren  who  had  just  formed  the  focus  of  their 
blooming  circle.  There,  one  arm  flung  over  the  instrument, 
another  raised  to  catch  the  flowing  hair  on  her  neck,  as  with 
a  countenance  full  of  energetic,  but  not  terrified  inquiry,  she 
turned  round  to  fix  her  glances  on  the  far  door  of  the  hall — 
there,  indeed,  was  Evelyn’s  long-lost,  long-sought  Eva.  During 
the  momentary  observation  he  was  afforded,  poor  Evelyn  felt 
that  never  before  had  he  seen  her  in  a  change  of  character  so 
novel,  startling,  and  imposing.  Her  courtly  dress,  so  much  in 
contrast  with  her  former  simple  and  romantic  attire,  might, 
indeed,  have  assisted  the  impression.  Her  long  hair  was  twisted 
up  from  the  forehead,  disposed  into  a  succession  of  bows,  and 
fell,  in  similar  bunches,  on  her  neck  and  shoulders  ;  her  loose  robe 
of  stiff,  white  silk,  hung  off  her  neck  ;  the  ample  sleeves,  open  at 
the  front,  did  not  reach  past  the  elbows,  and  were  fastened,  at 
certain  distances,  by  clasps  of  pearl.  Clouds  of  point  lace  fell 
round  the  bosom,  the  shoulders,  and  the  sleeves,  while  only  an 
indication  of  waist  was  given,  amid  the  luxury  of  Grecian  folds 
and  splendid  negligence  that  marked  the  courtly  costume  of  the 
day.  Eva,  thus  seen,  for  the  first  time,  by  her  bewildered  and 
admiring  husband,  might,  indeed,  gain  much  from  a  dress  like 
this  ;  yet  was  her  air,  and  the  expression  of  her  face  and  figure, 
as  new  and  commanding  as  her  guise  ;  her  features  beamed  with 
more  elevated  thought  and  sentiment.  Her  very  proportions 
seemed  to  have  acquired  a  line  of  fullness,  of  grace,  and  of  im¬ 
portance,  other  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  attribute  to 
them.  Altogether  she  seemed  a  lofty  lady,  born  to  move  in 
courts  and  tend  on  queens,  rather  than  the  simple,  though  en* 
thusiastic  Eva  he  had  first  seen  in  the  valley  of  Glenarrifif,  and 
wooed  and  won  by  the  moonlight  windings  of  Red  Bay. 

All  this,  which,  unfortunately  for  narrators,  has  taken  so  long 
to  describe,  being  seen  and  felt  by  Evelyn  at  a  glance,  his 
thoughts  reverted  in  consternation  to  the  other  late  transforma- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


443 


tions  of  character  he  had  attributed  to  Eva.  He  was  following 
up  the  reverie,  during  the  short  pause  since  the  departure  of  the 
king’s  messenger  from  the  hall,  when  her  eye,  suddenly  flashing 
round,  lighted  on  his.  He  started,  and  moved  a  step  forward  ; 
she  averted  her  regards  without  recognition.  Again  he  stepped 
on,  iu  motion,  to  address  her.  Again  Sarsfield  held  him  back, 
with,  “On  your  life,  no!  Attend  to  this  announcement.”  An 
officer  walked  rapidly,  though  with  a  jaded  step,  down  the  hall, 
his  boots  and  skirts  soiled  with  travel,  his  periwig  and  uniform 
covered  with  dust,  and  intense  anxiety  exhibited  in  his  pale,  lank 
features. 

“  You  have  ridden  hard  of  late,  Captain  Farlow  ?”  James 
cried,  as  they  met. 

“  From  the  Newry  mountains,  my  liege,  since  late  last  night ; 
where — ”  the  rest  was  inaudible  to  the  company. 

“  God’s  saints  I”  cried  James,  starting  back,  “  say  you  so, 
man,  and  our  advices  so  positive  against  it  ?  Speak  out  the 
news,  sir  ;  we  wish  no  secret  of  it  now.  Hear,  nobles  and  noble 
officers  ;  fair  dames  and  damsels — hear,  and  get  you  to  your 
orisons  for  us  ; — hear  all,  and  let  the  evening’s  pastime  change 
into  sterner  bustle.  Six  days  and  nights  have  passed  since  the 
Prince  of  Orange  touched  Irish  ground  ;  and  Captain  Farlow, 
who  brings  the  tidings,  has  been  worsted,  at  the  head  of  a 
detachment  of  two  thousand  men,  by  a  part  of  the  usurper’s 
army.  So,  gentle  ladies,  good-night  !  Lords,  and  others  of  the 
privy  council,  attend  us.  Hamilton,  Sarsfield,  join  us.  Our 
other  zealous  generals,  to  your  posts,  and  prepare  for  the  march 
by  midnight  ;  some  one  warn  Luttrell  to  repair  to  the  castle  for 
his  militia  orders.  Holy  saints  !  how  have  we  been  deceived  by 
poor  politicians,  in  this  matter  ?  .  But,  come — counsel  first, 
courage  after — and  at  last  one  good  blow  for  it  1” 

Followed  by  all  whose  duty  it  was  to  follow,  James  again 
sought  his  closet. 

“  Now,  Mr.  Evelyn,  to  horse,  to  horse  !”  cried  Sarsfield,  as, 
clasping  his  hand,  he  also  turned  to  follow.  “  Take  this  pass — 
ride,  ride — and  get  you  beyond  our  lines  as  speedily  as  may  be. 
Call  at  my  quarters  ;  I  shall  give  you  a  few  of  my  Lucan  troopers 
for  the  road.  Farewell,  sir — till  we  meet  again!”  Touching 
the  hilt  of  his  sword,  as,  looking  askance  over  his  shoulder,  he 
smiled  in  high  excitement,  and  strode  away. 

Evelyn  stood  a  moment  more  than  ever  overwhelmed.  The 
next,  his  eye  once  more  sought  Eva.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 


U4: 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 


her  face  and  figure,  retiring  through  the  open  archway  with 
Lady  Tyrconnel  and  her  ruffled  flock.  He  darted  after  them. 
Some  obstruction  arose  from  the  bustling  and  broken  groups  of 
nobles,  gentlemen,  and  officers  he  met  in  his  way.  And  when, 
at  last,  Evelyn  reached  into  the  inner  chamber,  it  was  empty, — 
a  door,  just  in  the  action  of  being  closed,  showing  him  a  skirt 
of  female  drapery,  and  thus  indicating  that,  through  it,  the  fair 
crowd  had  withdrawn. 

As  he  stood,  baffled  and  confounded,  some  persons  inquisi¬ 
tively,  and  rather  hostilely,  addressed  him.  This  brought  him  to 
a  sense  of  his  strange,  and,  perhaps,  perilous  situation.  An 
instant  after,  and  he  was  hurrying  out  of  the  Castle,  his  ears 
filled  with  the  renewed  trumpet-blasts  that  breathed  hate  and 
death  to  his  cause  and  him  ;  his  steps  every  moment  crossed  by 
armed  foes,  challenging  and  questioning  him.  Sarsfield’s  pass¬ 
port  brought  him,  however,  to  Sarsfield’s  house  ;  there  he  found 
the  men  he  had  been  promised,  mounted  to  accompany  him  ; 
and  he  sprang  to  his  saddle,  and  spurred  northward,  to  carry  to 
his  friends  intelligence  of  the  roar  of  preparation  that  already 
was  loud  in  his  rear. 

As  he  and  his  escort  rode  through  Essex-gate,  a  horseman 
passed  them  at  a  furious  rate.  Evelyn  was  struck  with  the 
general  air  of  this  person,  and  his  soul  sickened  within  him  at 
the  thought  of  whom  it  might  be.  A  glare  from  the  torches, 
carried  by  two  of  the  troopers,  just  then  caught  the  stranger’s 
profile,  and  his  worst  forebodings  became  confirmed.  He  pulled 
up,  and  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  shudder  ;  the  next  instant 
he  dashed  spurs  into  his  horse,  and  galloped  after.  But  no  one 
could  be  seen  on  the  suburb  road  before  him  ;  and  the  receding 
clatter  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  down  a  cross-road  to  the  right,  seemed 
to  intimate  that  in  that  direction  the  rider  had  disappeared. 
Affrighted,  almost  terrified,  and  mad  with  impatience,  Evelyn, 
after  a  short  pause,  gloomily  continued  his  journey. 

“My  lords  and  gentlemen,”  James  meanwhile  said  to  his 
council,  “  you  all  know  how  unexpectedly  this  news  has  come 
upon  us.  Every  advice  from  England,  every  opinion  here, 
agreed  in  making  us  think  that  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  held 
so  busy  by  contests  with  his  parliament  at  home,  that  he  could 
not  venture  upon  an  Irish  war  in  person.  Yet,  during  six 
days  has  he  been  amongst  us,  while  \we  knew  nothing  of  it 
Your  speedy  counsel,  now,  as  to  what  is  to  be  done.  Whatever 
we  resolve,  must  be  resolved  promptly,  and  as  promptly  executed. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


445 


Let  us  not  acknowledge  that  we  have  been  taken  off  our  guard. 
Above  all,  let  our  actions  show  that  we  have  not — 

“  None  are  ignorant  that  the  diseases  of  Schomberg’s  camp 
at  Dundalk,  reached  to  our  own  camp,  and  that  we  suffered 
almost  as  much  as  he  ;  that — ” 

He  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  person  with  a 
packet.  He  eagerly  opened  and  read  it. 

“  From  France,  my  lords  and  gentlemen  ;  from  the  queen  ! 
Her  majesty  writes  on  the  very  matter  that  now  engages  us  ; 
informed,  as  it  appears,  long  before  ourselves,  of  the  expedition 
of  the  Priuce  of  Orange.  Let  all  our  zealous  friends  peruse  the 
paper  ;  meantime  we  proceed  in  our  council. 

“  It  is  well  known,  I  say,  that,  together  with  disease  and 
sickness,  the  native  army,  which  so  honorably  closed  the  last 
campaign,  has  been  much  reduced  by  bad  food,  and  sometimes 
the  want  of  food  of  any  kind,  while  no  recruitings  have  since 
taken  place  for  our  service.  Further,  it  is  known  how  earnestly 
aud  often  I  have  meantime  pressed  the  French  cabinet  to  afford 
us  the  troops,  and  other  helps,  which  his  most  Christian  Majesty 
ordered  to  be  prepared  for  us — how  our  loving  queen  strove, 
on  the  spot,  in  the  same  view.  Yet,  through  the  jealousy  of 
the  minister,  offended  because  I  refused  his  naming  of  a  general, 
in  favor  of  the  gallant  Lauzan,  now  by  your  side — how  much 
we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  expectations  of  aid  !  Only 
six  thousand  Frenchmen  at  last  sent  to  us  ;  and  while  our  faith¬ 
ful  Irish  lack  arms  and  food,  clothes  and  shoes,  little  of  the  other 
assistance  that  was,  perchance,  more  necessary.  So  that,  my 
lords  aud  gentlemen,  between  natives  and  allies,  I  doubt  if  our 
present  army,  badly  appointed  as  it  is,  destitute  of  field-pieces 
and  muskets,  amounts  to  more  than  thirty  thousand.” 

“  To  no  more,  my  liege,  including  garrisons,”  said  Sarsfield  ; 
“  while  the  utmost  force  disposable  for  the  field  is  about  twenty- 
five  thousand.” 

“  You  have  come  possessed  of  the  strength  of  the  enemy, 
Captain  Farlow?”  resumed  James. 

“  I  have,  sir.  Thirty-six  thousand,  since  William’s  meeting 
with  Schomberg  ;  all  veteran  troops,  completely  supplied  and 
appointed  ;  and  mostly  foreigners,  inured  to  war,  fatigue,  and 
victory.” 

“  The  odds  are  against  us,”  said  James,  in  a  downcast  and 
undecided  tone. 

“  Not  while  Heaven  be  with  us,”  observed  Father  Petre. 


446 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  And  our  cause  that  of  our  king  and  holy  Church/’  echoed 
Tyrconnel’s  reverend  chaplain. 

“  Surely  thus  are  we  the  host,  and  they  a  remnant/’  said  old 
Tyrconnel,  encouraged  by  the  the  confidence  of  the  clergymen. 

“  Speak,  Count  de  Lauzan,”  resumed  James,  half  offended  at 
the  intrusion  of  opinions  which  he  had  not  called  for,  even 
though  they  agreed  with  his  own. 

The  count  answered  in  French,  that,  nnder  the  circumstances, 
and  particularly  after  having  perused  the  queen’s  letter,  he 
would  strongly  recommend  precaution  in  every  shape  ;  adding, 
that  he  was  not  long  enough  in  Ireland  to  offer  very  particular 
opinions. 

The  French  ambassador,  D’Avoux,  when  called  on,  made 
similar  vague  observations. 

“Now,  Sarsfield,”  continued  James. 

“  May  it  please  your  majesty,”  said  the  general,  “  the  visible 
odds,  at  least,”  bowing  to  the  ecclesiastics,  “  are,  as  your  ma¬ 
jesty  hath  observed,  against  us.  I  incline,  on  the  whole,  to  be 
governed  by  Count  de  Lauzan’s  opinion.” 

“  For  the  first  time  in  your  life,  then,”  whispered  Hamilton, 
“  A’  God’s  name,  don’t  pay  him  this  flattery.” 

“  Hamilton,”  said  James,  smiling,  “  we  observe  your  zeal  with 
Sarsfield’s  ear,  and  can  read  by  your  eye  that  you  would  willing¬ 
ly  spoil  a  scarlet  cloak  for  one  good  horse-charge  at  our  son-in¬ 
law,  on  fair  ground,  and  your  troops  about  equal.  But  let  Sars¬ 
field  say  his  say.  Nor  do  I  fear  you  or  other  noble  Irish 
generals  present  are  offended,  that  we  have  called  on  him,  though 
less  in  rank  than  you  and  them,  to  render  us  a  first  answer. 
Sarsfield,  speak  on.” 

“The  chances  being  so  much  against  us,  I  turn  to  her  maj¬ 
esty’s  gracious  letter,  my  liege.  Here  is  King  Louis’  promise, 
that  when  the  convoy  which  has  brought  William  to  Ireland 
shall  join  the  English  fleet,  he  will  send  a  sufficient  number  of 
frigates  and  privateers  to  destroy  his  transports,  still  at  sea,  and 
coasting  after  him  ;  and  then  pin  him  up,  here,  while  the  hitherto 
successful  fleets  of  France  shall  once  more  engage  the  English 
admiral,  and,  if  again  triumphant,  make  a  landing  in  England. 
Therefore,  I  think  your  majesty  might  do  well  to  await  the  issue 
of  things  at  sea  ;  and  adding  to  the  strength  of  your  already 
formidable  garrisons,  retire  from  Ulster,  across  the  Shannon, 
where  the  army  may  not  only  be  kept  up,  but  recruited,  re¬ 
freshed,  and  better  disciplined.  Should  the  views  of  his  most 


THE  BOYNE  WATEK. 


447 


Christian  majesty  but  in  a  degree  succeed,  William’s  army  might, 
as  the  autumn  approaches,  share  the  fate  of  Schomberg’s,  fast 
year.  Or  else,  England  may  be  lost  to  him  before  he  can  return 
thither.  Your  majesty  might,  meantime,  continue  in  the  south, 
prepared  to  take  speedy  advantage  of  any  such  turns  of  fortune.” 

The  Duke  of  Berwick  and  Powis,  the  members  of  James’s 
privy  council,  with  the  exception  of  Tyrconnel  and  Father  Petre, 
the  Lords  Clare  and  Galway,  and  the  majority  of  his  other  Irish 
officers  present,  seconded  this  prudent  advice.  James  stooped 
down  to  whisper  with  the  ancient  ecclesiastic.  There  was  a  deep 
pause.  At  last  he  manned  himself,  and  spoke. 

“  Much  reason  there  is  in  the  opinions  offered.  But  should  I 
now  abandon  Dublin,  is  it  not  likely  that  my  friends  in  it  will 
despair  of  my  cause,  capitulate  without  a  blow,  and  make  terms 
for  themselves,  away  from  my  interests  ?  And  may  not  many 
other  friends  follow  their  example  ?  For  the  sake  of  God  and 
of  gallantry,  let  us  not  run  such  a  risk.  A  much  more  serious 
one  than  engaging  in  a  good  cause,  with  good  consciences,  and 
brave  hearts,  a  somewhat  superior  enemy.  Courage,  gentlemen ! 
And  now,  action  and  bustle,  too  1  In  the  name  of  Heaven  and 
our  countries,  we  march  northward,  to  join  our  main  army  at 
Ardee,  by  the  dawn.  Should  the  enemy  advance  on  us,  the 
pass  of  the  Boyne  shall,  at  the  least,  be  contested.  Sir  Patrick 
Trant,”  he  continued,  in  a  changed  and  melancholy  tone,  “  hie 
thee  to  Waterford  ;  and,  in  case  of  the  worst,  secure  and  pre¬ 
pare  a  vessel  for  our  safe  re-embarkation  to  France.  My 
daughter’s  husband  must  not,  even  yet,  make  us  a  prisoner,  at 
his  mercy.  Though  I  fear  it  not,  gallant  lords  and  gentlemen.” 
(He  again  looked  spiritedly  around,  through  the  tears  that 
stood  in  his  eyes.)  “  My  cause  the  best,  and  you  to  prop  it,  I 
think  but  of  success  and  victory.  ’Tis  the  first  time,  during  the 
wrong  and  suffering  of  years,  that  I  have  had  promise  of  a  fair 
battle  for  my  crown.  And  now,  at  last,”  repeating  words  he 
often  used,  “  one  good  blow  for  it  1” 

“  The  Lord  prompts  our  king  to  speak  !”  observed  Father ' 
Petre. 

“  Long  live  King  James  !”  cried  Tyrconnel. 

“  He  will  play  the  hero  too  much,”  remarked  Sarsfield  to 
many  assenting  Irish  officers  about  him. 

“We  will  charge  them,  at  all  events,”  said  Hamilton. 


448 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XXXI Y. 

Distracted  in  his  thoughts,  agitated  and  irritated  in  his  feel¬ 
ings,  Evelyn  held  his  northern  course.  Separating  from  his 
escort  at  the  last  outpost  of  the  Irish  lines,  he  gained,  on  the 
noon  of  the  second  day,  William’s  camp  at  Loughbrickland. 
His  leave  of  absence  being  that  very  day  expired,  he  hastened 
to  present  himself  to  Schomberg,  whom  he  found  busy  in  assist- 
ing  the  other  general  officers  to  get  the  whole  army  into  march¬ 
ing  order. 

Near  to  Schomberg’s  hut  he  met  Walker,  accompanied  by 
Dr.  Dopping,  Bishop  of  Meath,  and  a  group  of  clergymen,  wait¬ 
ing,  under  Schomberg’s  auspices,  to  present  an  address  of  con¬ 
gratulation  to  William,  and  somewhat  chagrined  that  he  had 
waited  a  long  time.” 

“  He  shuns  us,”  grumbled  the  Bishop  of  Derry,  “as  if  he  had 
no  common  cause  with  us,  and  only  came  to  Ireland  in  the  view 
I  before  mentioned  to  you — namely,  to  conquer  it  for  his  Dutch 
followers.” 

“  Observe  how  his  army  is  constituted.  Distrusting  English 
soldiers,  he  takes  care  that  much  more  than  half  of  it  shall 
be  foreigners.  It  contains  ten  thousand  Danes,  nine  thousand 
Dutch,  and  four  thousand  French  refugees.  And  the  superior¬ 
ity  in  officers  is  still  more  remarkable.  Then  he  brings  with  him 
the  Prince  of  Denmark,  more  from  a  fear  of  leaving  him  behind, 
and  to  lessen  the  odium  of  fighting  against  his  father-in-law  by 
dividing  that  odium,  than  to  do  honor  to  the  husband  of  James’s 
second  daughter,  whom  he  did  not  even  permit  to  travel  in  the 
coach  with  him.  From  a  similar  precaution,  he  fetches  over  a 
number  of  English  nobility  and  men  of  fashion,  nominally  as 
volunteers,  but  really  as  hostages,  to  insure  the  good  conduct 
of  their  friends  at  home,  touching  the  widespread  plot  that  has 
been  discovered,  and  the  great  French  descent  expected  on  the 
English  coast.” 

While  the  bishop  thus  gave  vent  to  his  irritation,  Evelyn 
gazed  at  the  whole  army  drawn  out  in  marching  array,  extend¬ 
ing  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  further  than  his  eye  could  reach, 
aud  forming,  in  their  perfect  appointments  and  excellent  condi¬ 
tion,  a  magnificent  and  imposing  spectacle. 

At  a  great  distance,  a  stir  presently  became  visible,  and 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


449 


Schomberg  intimated  that  the  king  approached  ;  galloping  along 
the  line,  to  bestow  on  it  a  parting  inspection. 

“  Now/’  resumed  Walker,  “  will  you  see  him  in  the  only  char¬ 
acter  in  which  he  is  admirable.  Since  he  has  landed  in  Ireland, 
his  whole  conduct  shows,  indeed,  gallant  and  heroic,  and  like  a 
great  captain.  He  accepts  no  better  quarters  than  his  soldiers 
have  ;  he  rides  among  them  by  day,  stirring  up  their  mettle  ;  he 
sleeps  with  them  on  the  field  by  night.  And  once,  when  it  was 
proposed  to  get  wine  for  his  use,  ‘No/  he  said  (in  their  hearing, 
however),  *  I  will  drink  water  with  my  soldiers.7  77 

While  the  dignitary  spoke,  William  approached,  at  full  sweep, 
distancing  his  aids-de-camp  and  other  attendants,  and  appearing, 
indeed,  so  different  a  man  from  the  William  our  friend  had  seen 
at  Kensington  Palace,  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  him  the 
same  person.  He  sat  erect  and  motionless  in  the  saddle,  as  if 
he  were,  indeed,  part  of  the  noble  animal  he  bestrode.  His 
usually  languid  eyes  glared  and  flashed  ;  excitement  lent  a  high 
color  to  his  wasted  cheeks  ;  and  every  muscle  of  his  body  ex¬ 
pressed  energy,  as,  with  a  drawn  sword  occasionally  moved 
round  his  head,  he  addressed,  in  his  rapid  transit  along  the  line, 
brief,  but  spirit-stirring  words  of  approbation  and  encourage¬ 
ment,  to  the  officers  and  soldiers,  who  waved  their  hats  and 
plumes,  and  shouted  as  he  passed. 

His  eye  lighting  on  Schomberg,  he  suddenly  pulled  up  and 
approached  him. 

“  For  Dundalk  so  soon,  my  liege  ?77  asked  the  old  duke. 

“  Yes,”  answered  William,  “  before  the  rains  come  on.” 

Schomberg,  understanding  the  allusion,  colored,  bowed,  and 
drew  back. 

“  Does  your  majesty  hold  to  be  useless  any  further  tarrying 
for  information  of  the  enemy  ?77  inquired  General  Douglas. 

“  I  have  not  come  to  Ireland  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  my 
feet/7  was  William’s  reply,  as  he  motioned  to  turn  off. 

“  May  it  please  your  excellent  majesty,77  said  Walker,  stepping 
forward,  “  to  hear  the  address  of  which  your  grace  has  been  ad¬ 
vised,  and  which  the  Bishop  of  Meath,  these  reverend  gentlemen, 
and  myself,  have  been  deputed  to  present  ?77 

“  Ay,”  cri'ed  William,  ungraciously,  “  if  it  be  brief.77 

Upon  which  the  Bishop  of  Derry  began  to  read  aloud  a  long- 
winded  and  elaborate  composition,  that  had  cost  much  care  and 
study,  thanking  William  for  coming  to  Ireland,  and  God  for 
allowing  him  to  come,  and  ending  with  a  statement  of  the  former 


450 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


woes  suffered  by  loyal  Protestants  from  Irish  Papists — their 
merits,  past  and  present — and  humble  hope  that  his  majesty 
would — 

Here  William,  who  had  more  than  once  winced  under  the  in¬ 
fliction  of  so  long  a  piece  of  rhetoric,  interrupted  the  right  rev¬ 
erend  captain.  Now  that  he  was  in  his  element  and  his  glory — • 
in  the  saddle  and  the  field — speaking  much  more  flowingly  and 
energetically  than  was  his  wont,  he  said  : 

“  I  know  the  rest,  Bishops  of  Derry  and  Meath  !  It  contains 
matter  on  which  I  have  often  been  urged  in  England.  But  as  I 
have  answered  before,  so  I  now  answer.  My  creed  does  not 
teach  me  persecution  ;  and  I  do  not  come  to  Ireland,  no  more 
than  I  came  to  England,  to  persecute  Papists,  but  to  assist 
Protestants.  Our  parliaments,  here  and  there,  may  do  as  they 
like.  I  am  not  skilled  in  the  way  of  parliaments.  But  by  me, 
or  by  my  command.  Papists  shall  be  treated  as  fair  foes,  and 
naught  beyond.  So,  farewell,  my  lords  and  gentlemen.  Sound 
the  march  ! — march  1”  he  screamed  along  the  line.  “  For  Dun¬ 
dalk,  Duke  Schomberg  1”  And,  dashing  spurs  into  his  willing 
charger,  he  was  out  of  sight  in  a  few  minutes. 

Between  three  and  four  days  brought  the  army  to  Dundalk, 
now  no  longer  formidable,  in  a  fine  season,  and  in  the  absence  of 
an  enemy.  The  king  halted  but  a  short  time  in  the  town,  when, 
hearing  that  James  had  retired  from  Ardee,  he  hastened  thither. 
Here,  gaining  further  information  that  his  father-in-law  had  re¬ 
crossed  the  Boyne  at  and  near  Drogheda,  he  still  moved  after 
him.  The  morning  of  the  30th  of  June  saw  William  and  his 
whole  army  within  view  of  the  Boyne  Water,  and  of  the  Irish 
camp. 

Turning  to  the  left,  off  the  road,  attended  by  Schomberg, 
Prince  George  of  Denmark,  Major-General  Scavenmore,  the 
Bishop  of  Derry,  Lords  Sidney  and  Portland,  Generals  Kirke 
and  Douglas,  and  their  respective  aids-de-camp,  amongst  whom 
vas  Evelyn,  riding  by  Schomberg’s  side,  the  king  ascended  a 
hill,  called  Tully-Escar,  which  commanded,  at  cannon-shot  dis¬ 
tance,  the  town  of  Drogheda,  and  altogether  afforded  a  good 
observation  of  the  country  and  the  hostile  lines. 

Evelyn  was  pleased  and  animated  with  the  whole  view  from 
the  top  of  this  hill.  To  the  left  appeared  the  steeple  and  castle 
of  Drogheda,  peering  over  the  gentle  ascent  of  the  middle  dis¬ 
tance.  Running  to  the  left,  this  eminence  at  last  fell  in  broken 
lines  to  the  sea,  whose  waters  gleamed  above  it.  A  continual*** 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


451 


of  the  same  line  ran  to  the  right  also  of  the  town,  overtopped, 
in  its  whole  course,  by  hills  more  blue  and  remote.  Owing  to 
the  high  nature  of  the  sweeps  of  ground  between  him  and  the 
Boyne,  few  or  no  glimpses  of  the  river  could  be  obtained.  But 
on  a  memorable  little  hillock,  forming  part  of  the  mass  of  the 
middle  distance,  clustered  the  Irish  camp,  obviously  at  the  oppo¬ 
site  side  of  the  hidden  water,  and  running  in  scattered  patches 
towards  Drogheda.  Bodies  of  troops,  horse  and  foot,  looking 
insignificant,  either  from  their  real  paucity  of  number,  or  the 
distance  they  were  at,  and  the  extent  of  ground  over  which  they 
were  strewn,  appeared  in  motion,  about  the  camp,  as  William 
ascended  his  point  of  observation.  Some  traces  of  a  continued 
line  could  be  noted  as  far  to  the  left  as  the  town. 

William  and  his  officers  soon  had  their  glasses  out,  and  some 
pause  ensued.  At  length,  Evelyn  heard  him  say : 

“  If  they  have  no  other  advantage,  their  position  seems  a 
strong  one.  Their  right  rests  on  the  town  ;  their  left  on  those 
broken  heights  ;  and  their  centre — who  can  tell  us  the  nature  of 
the  ground  between  their  centre  and  the  river  ?” 

The  captain  of  the  guides  answered  that  it  was  mostly  swampy 
ground  along  the  whole  line,  from  the  bases  of  the  heights  to 
the  edge  of  the  Boyne. 

“  Better  still  for  them  ;  a  river  and  a  marsh  between  them 
and  us.  Is  there  not  a  bridge  at  hand,  on  our  right  V7 

“  Only  one,”  he  was  answered  ;  “  at  the  village  of  Slane, 
about  seven  miles  up  the  river.” 

“Many  fords  ?”  he  still  questioned. 

“  But  one  known  ford,  about  opposite  the  center  of  the  Irish 
army.” 

“  Yes,”  resumed  William,  after  another  pause,  “  it  is  a  strong 
and  well-chosen  position.” 

“  But  a  poor  appearance  of  an  enemy,  my  liege/  said  Major- 
General  Scavenmore. 

“  I  do  not  know,”  replied  William.  “  However,  we  shall  soon 
become  better  acquainted  with  their  numbers.” 

•‘Your  majesty  can  have  no  opinion,  whatever  may  be  their 
numbers,  of  a  foe  so  despicable,”  observed  Walker. 

"  I  do  not  know  that,  either,  Bishop  of  Derry.  Did  you  find 
them,  as  you  described  them,  at  Hillsborough  and  Long-cause¬ 
way  ?” 

“  Your  majesty  does  not  incline  to  force  the  river  ?”  inquired 
Schomberg. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


452 

“I  have  assuredly  no  wish  to  make  this  a  Dundalk  campaign, 
if  there  be  much  choice  left,  Duke  Schomberg.  But  come,”  he 
continued,  as  some  confusion  arose  in  part  of  the  army  who  had 
ascended  and  sat  down  upon  an  adjacent  height,  in  view  of  the 
Irish  camp,  and  thus  provoked  a  few  shots,  while  a  ball  struck 
the  very  hill  occupied  by  William  and  his  officers  ;  “  we  have 
looked  at  them  long  enough  at  a  distance,  as  they  seem  to  think. 
Let  us  see  them  nearer  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  get  our  over- 
curious  simpletons  out  of  their  range.  Follow,  gentlemen. 
Prince  George,  we  have  troubled  you  little  in  this  council,  out 
of  tenderness  to  your  inexperience  in  such  matters  ;  and  doubt¬ 
less  you  will  thank  us  for  any  trouble  we  can  save  you.  So, 
choose  your  steps,  and  descend.  Tell  the  guide  to  lead  over  the 
cross-road  towards  the  water.  Portland,  hither.” 

Having  gained  the  point  from  which  he  had  deviated  and  as¬ 
cended,  and  thus  again  sunk  below  all  view  of  the  Irish  camp, 
William  accordingly  followed  the  guide  over  a  wretched  bridle- 
road,  which,  still  at  his  late  distance  from  the  enemy,  first  ran, 
behind  considerable  heights,  parallel  to  the  river,  and  then  took 
a  diagonal  sweep  towards  it.  At  one  of  its  angles  he  halted  ; 
and  ascertaining  that  his  whole  army  remained  out  of  sight  of 
the  Irish,  ordered  them  to  halt,  also,  and  make  a  morning  meal. 
Upon  a  large  stone,  flattened  at  the  top,  Portland,  assisted  by 
some  person  in  waiting,  arranged  William’s  own  breakfast,  which 
consisted  only  of  the  coarse  bread  shared  by  his  soldiers,  and 
ample  draughts  from  a  huge,  black,  Dutch-looking  bottle,  that 
emitted  a  potent  scent  at  a  good  distance.  The  king  then  took 
his  meerschaum,  and  in  profound  silence  applied  himself  to  it.  In 
a  little  time  he  called  for  water.  None  was  to  be  had,  and  he 
rose  and  asked  it,  himself,  at  a  miserable  hovel  by  the  road-side, 
near  to  his  primitive  breakfast-table,  which  still  stands,  un¬ 
moved  and  immovable,  upon  the  spot  where  he  found  it  ;  its 
fame  equal  to  his  own,  and  promising  to  be  as  durable  in  the 
simple  neighborhood. 

Renewing  his  march,  he  continued,  still  out  of  view  of  James’s 
camp,  to  approach  the  Boyne  ;  and  at  last  turned  into  a  solitary 
little  valley  that  led  straight  to  it.  The  sides  of  the  gentle 
slopings,  at  either  hand,  were  intersected  by  natural  trench  works, 
within  which,  as  well  as  over  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  he  en¬ 
camped,  and  halted  his  whole  army.  The  place  since  retains 
the  name  of  William’s  Glen. 

About  an  hour  after  noon,  atteuded  by  Schomberg,  with  Eve- 


TIIE  BOYNE  WATER. 


453 


Iyn,  Portland,  Schomberg’s  son,  General  Douglas,  and  other 
officers,  the  king  emerged  from  one  of  the  little  hollows  described, 
and  found  himself  on  the  brow  of  an  eminence,  that,  with  another 
sweep  between  it  and  the  Boyne  Water,  suddenly  gave  him  a 
full  and  near  view  of  James’s  camp.  Here,  referring  to  his  map 
and  using  his  glass,  he  sat  in  his  saddle  for  some  time.  Then, 
ordering  out  a  body  of  horse,  he  obliquely  descended  the  heights, 
and  rode  first  to  within  musket-shot,  of  the  pass  of  Oldbridge, 
and  next  a  good  distance,  to  his  right,  up  the  river.  During  all 
these  movements,  William  observed  a  profound  silence,  which 
none  of  his  generals  interrupted. 

Retracing  his  steps,  he  again  won  the  top  of  the  second  little 
eminence,  whence  he  had  made  his  first  observations,  and,  dis¬ 
mounting,  sat  upon  the  grass.  In  this  situation,  he  was  about 
two  miles  from  Drogheda,  on  which  rested  James’s  right;  about 
a  mile,  in  a  diagonal  direction,  from  Dunore  Hill,  which  was 
near  to  his  centre,  and  only  some  hundred  yards  from  the  ford 
of  Oldbridge,  which  was  marked  by  the  neighborhood  of  a  gi¬ 
gantic  and  isolated  rock,  since  chosen  as  the  base  of  the  Boyne 
monument.  Between  him  and  Dunore  Hill  lay,  beyond  the 
river,  one  or  two  introductory  swells  of  land,  with,  at  their  bases, 
and  stretching  to  the  river’s  side,  an  extensive  marsh,  now  no 
longer  visible. 

When  William  had  descended  to  ride  up  the  river,  accompa¬ 
nied  by  his  officers,  and  the  body  of  horse,  some  stir  appeared 
through  the  camp  on  Dunore  Hill.  By  the  time  he  came  back, 
another  body  of  Irish  horse  had  been  drawn  out  in  a  ploughed 
field,  immediately  opposite  to  the  place  on  which  he  had  coolly 
chosen  to  sit  down.  Schomberg  ventured  to  point  out  the 
enemy,  and  hint  a  change  of  position.  William,  with  much 
coldness,  if  not  contempt  of  manner,  said  there  was  no  more 
danger  there  than  in  any  other  place  :  such  was  the  belief  of  his 
dark  fatalism. 

“  Besides,”  he  added,  “  they  have  no  cannon.  And  surely  a 
horseman’s  pop-gun  cannot  reach  us.” 

But  he  miscalculated.  At  that  very  moment,  James,  standing 
beside  two  field-pieces,  was  observing  him,  unseen,  from  behind  a 
wall  of  loose  stones,  and  otherwise  screened  by  the  horse.  A 
celebrated  gunner  in  his  service,  named  Burke,  had  levelled  the 
cannon,  and  held  a  lighted  match  in  his  hand. 

“  I  have  him  covered  as  dead  as  Julius  Caesar,  your  majesty : 
and  now  a  shot  for  the  three  crowns  1” 


454 


THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


11  Hold  1”  cried  James,  irresolute  in  the  very  act  lie  had 
planned,  as  he  struck  down  the  field-piece.  “  Knave  !  harm  not 
my  daughter’s  husband.” 

Burke,  as  if  the  command  had  come  too  late,  fired,  at  random, 
the  gun  furthest  from  him,  and  almost  instantly  that  which 
James  had  borne  down.  The  shot  from  the  first  killed  one  oi 
William’s  aids-de-camp,  and  the  horses  of  Count  Schomberg  and 
Evelyn  ;  but  the  shot  from  the  second,  misdirected  from  Burke’s 
level,  only  sent  one  ball  across  the  water,  which,  striking  against 
the  edge  of  the  lower  bank,  under  William,  glanced  up  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

William  fell,  however,  from  the  effect  of  the  ball.  His  officers 
crowded  round  him  ;  the  hostile  party,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  thinking  him  dead,  shouted  loudly,  galloped  off  to  Dunore 
Hill,  joined  their  main  body,  communicated  the  supposed  event, 
and  shouts  of  tenfold  power  rang  through  hill  and  valley,  spread¬ 
ing  towards  Drogheda,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  distance. 
While  James,  still  inconsistent,  glorying  in  the  imaginary  result 
that  he  had  first  proposed  and  afterwards  prevented,  instantly 
sent  dispatches  to  Dublin  and  Paris,  announcing  William’s  death  ; 
and  illuminations,  and  other  rejoicings,  subsequently  took  place 
in  both  cities,  in  consequence  of  the  news. 

At  the  report  of  the  shots,  various  bodies  of  William’s  army, 
and  many  pieces  of  artillery,  appeared  ou  the  heights  about  him. 
Evelyn,  though  scarce  recovered  from  the  confusion  of  his  own 
fall,  while  his  horse  went  down,  was  the  first  to  step  towards  the 
king,  raise  him,  tear  off  his  neckcloth,  and  bind  it  round  his 
shoulder.  In  answer  to  this,  William  only  said,  repulsively,  as 
he  started  to  his  feet — 

“  Pshaw,  sir — naught  ;  it  should  have  come  nearer.  Every 
bullet  has  its  billet.” 

But,  observing  the  alarm  and  confusion  of  the  troops  who 
now  appeared,  he  turned  to  them,  with  a  surprising  change  of 
spirit  and  energy,  and  refusing  the  sling  in  which  he  was  requested 
to  rest  his  arm,  took  off  with  that  very  arm  his  hat  and  plume, 
waved  it  thrice  round  his  head,  and,  exactly  as  he  had  done  at 
Maestrieht,  in  1696,  when,  also  slightly  wounded,  his  troops  be¬ 
came  dispirited,  thrice  cheered  aloud,  until  their  cheers  answered 
him,  and  sent  the  lie  to  the  hostile  shouts  that  ran  along  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river. 

Until  towards  evening,  William  continued,  after  this,  to  ride 
among  his  troops,  showing  himself  to  them,  and  in  every  way 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


455 


keeping  up  their  spirits.  Meantime,  none  of  his  generals  knew 
any  thing  of  his  intentions  ;  whether  or  no  he  would  attack 
James  ;  or  if  so,  in  what  manner.  Schomberg  retiring  with 
Evelyn  to  his  tent,  expressed  much  dissatisfaction  at  a  reserve 
that,  towards  a  man  of  his  experience  and  rank — the  descend¬ 
ant  of  a  noble  family  in  his  own  country  ;  the  husband  of  a 
Dudley  ;  Marshal  of  France,  Grandee  of  Portugal,  General¬ 
issimo  of  Prussia,  and  Duke  of  England — was,  at  the  least, 
uucourteous  and  humiliating.  Evelyn  could  give  him  no  com¬ 
fort  ;  and  the  venerable  old  soldier  of  fortune  had  recourse  to 
his  national  consolation,  and  spent  the  evening  in  his  tent,  puff¬ 
ing  much,  and  saying  little,  though  often  there 

- “  broke 

A  sigh  tliro’  suffocating  smoke.” 

Not  until  the  late  hour  of  nine  o’clock  was  he  roused  by  a  mes¬ 
sage  to  attend  the  king  at  a  council,  and  to  bring  with  him  the 
Enniskillen  officer  who  had  been  one  of  the  deputies  to  England, 
and  who  had  offered  his  majesty  some  service  that  day.  Ac¬ 
cordingly,  Evelyn  attended  him  to  a  cabin  which,  in  lieu  of  fitter 
accommodation,  served  for  the  royal  quarters. 

They  found  William,  surrounded  by  all  his  general  officers, 
steadfastly  regarding  a  map.  Profound  silence  reigned  in  the 
council. 

“  Has  the  Irish  officer  yet  arrived  ?”  was  the  king’s  first 
question. 

Evelyn  advanced  and  bowed. 

“  Hearken,  sir,”  continued  William.  “  Behind  Dunore  Hill,  at 
the  distance  of  some  miles,  we  have  here  marked  a  village  called 
Duleek,  a  pass  between  us  and  Dublin.  Know  you  the  nature 
of  the  ground  lying  towards  it  from  Slane  Bridge,  some  miles  up 
the  river  ?” 

Evelyn  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  described  the  ground 
to  be,  at  first,  marshy  and  uneven,  but  afterwards  not  difficult. 
William  again  paused  ;  but  suddenly  broke  the  renewed  silence. 

“  To-morrow  morning,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  we  shall  cross 
this  river.” 

Schomberg  ventured  to  dissent,  saying,  that  the  enemy’s  posi¬ 
tion  was  so  formidable,  more  time  and  observation  were  required 
to  consider  an  attack. 

“  Perhaps,”  William  observed,  '  that  was  the  way  at  Dun* 


456 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


dalk,  and  might  do  as  well  here.  Nevertheless,  we  shall  try 
them  to-morrow  morning.” 

The  old  general,  curbing  his  chagrin,  took  the  map,  and  again 
recommended,  since  his  majesty  was  determined  on  battle,  to 
send  a  strong  detachment,  that  night,  up  to  Slane  Bridge,  with 
the  view  of  getting  between  James  and  Duleek,  and  so  taking 
some  certain  step  towards  a  victory. 

“  Leaving  the  detachment  to  fare  as  it  may,  before  we  can 
cross  in  the  morning  ?  Silly,  my  lord  duke !”  said  William. 
“  Heaven  send  we  do  not  sometimes  outlive  our  talents  and 
ourselves.” 

Without  trusting  his  tongue  to  an  answer,  Schomberg  took 
his  hat,  bowed,  and  left  the  hovel. 

“  Dotage,”  muttered  William.  “  Attend,  my  lords  and  gentle¬ 
men.  The  river  shall  be  crossed  early  to-morrow  morning,  in 
three  places.  Our  right  shall  first  move  on  Slane,  push  over 
the  bridge,  take  the  enemy’s  left  in  flank,  and  get  between  them 
and  Duleek.  Soon  after,  our  centre  and  main  force  shall  cross 
the  ford  opposite  this  village  of  Oldbridge,  and  engage  the 
enemy’s  main  force  also.  Our  left,  composed  of  all  the  horse 
remaining  after  this  disposition,  shall  await  the  result  of  the  two 
first  attempts,  and  then,  crossing  at  a  pass  I  have  myself  dis¬ 
covered,  within  a  mile  of  Drogheda,  rout  their  right.  And  so, 
good-night,  and  good  repose  till  daybreak.  The  officers  destined 
to  command  the  different  divisions  shall  receive  notice  of  their 
appointments  by  bedtime  ;  also,  a  notice  of  the  particular  troops 
who  are  to  form  our  right,  left,  and  centre.  To  your  tents,  my 
lords  and  gentlemen.  A  word,  sir,”  to  Evelyn,  as  he  withdrew 
with  the  rest ;  “we  lost  an  aid-de-camp  to-day  ;  see  that  you 
take  his  place  to-morrow  morning.  We  may  require  your  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  ground.  Bear  this  paper  to  Duke  Schomberg,  this 
to  his  son  and  General  Douglas,  this  to  La  Caillemotte  ;  but 
deliver  none  for  an  hour  to  come.  Then,  return  to  us.  And 
hark — as  we  have  been  told  that  the  enemy  choose  to  distinguish 
themselves  tomorrow  by  white  favors  in  their  hats,  convey  our 
pleasure  to  our  generals  that  they,  and  every  soldier  of  the  army, 
do  assume  green  for  their  color  ;  a  green  bough,  or  the  like — so, 
speed  you.  What  a  trick,  dear  Bentinck,”  he  continued,  turning 
to  his  prime  favorite,  after  Evelyn  had  departed  to  execute  this 
command,  well  known  to  have  really  been  issued  by  William — 
“  what  a  farce  is  this  fashion  of  choosing  a  color  to  cut  each 
other’s  throats  under !  Yet,  as  it  has  been  used  on  the  other 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


457 


Bide  of  the  river,  we  must  needs  adopt  it.  And,  gramere.y  for 
their  wisdom,  I  suppose  whatever  way  the  battle  may  go,  James 
will  be  recollected  by  his  white  badge,  and  I  by  my  green  badge, 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generations  of  our  gracious  partisans, 
better  than  by  any  particular  knowledge  of  our  real  differences, 
our  motives,  or  our  principles.  Oh,  yes  1  In  this  land  of  Ire¬ 
land,  especially,  which,  since  my  good  Englishers  first  possessed 
it,  has  been  kept  down  only  by  allowing  its  quarrelsome  people 
to  gore  each  other  ; — here,  I  warrant  you,  long  after  the  result 
of  to-morrow’s  struggle,  the  children’s  children  of  the  Irish 
among  our  troops,  will  be  more  ready  to  crack  a  Papist’s  crown, 
in  honor  of  the  colors  their  ancestors  now  happen  to  wear  in 
their  caps,  than  anxious  to  understand  the  cause  of  our  policy 
in  fighting  at  their  head.  ‘  William  and  the  green  forever  1’ 
‘  Huzzah  for  the  loyal  and  Protestant  green  !’  will  cause,  from 
time  to  time,  more  petty  warfare,  than,  perhaps,  the  amount  of 
this  coming  battle  of  the  Boyne  Water.” 

His  majesty,  though  a  prince  of  considerable  foresight,  has, 
nowever,  been  strangely  unprophetie  in  part  of  these  remarks, 
giving  the  two  parties  credit  for  much  more  recollection  of  facts, 
than,  cynical  as  he  might  be,  they  afterwards  proved  themselves 
entitled  to.  Por — explain  it  who  can — James’s  defeated  ad¬ 
herents  bequeathed,  as  an  honorable  color  for  their  children  to 
fight  for,  the  very  green  under  which  they  were  prostrated, 
while  his  own  sensible  and  grateful  friends  afterwards  attacked 
it  as  a  vile  color,  although  it  had  led  them  to  victory.  Attacked 
it  wherever  it  appeared,  except  when  met  in  trees  and  fields  ; 
and  mounted  a  sweeter  color  of  their  own,  to  entitle  them  to  say 
to  the  heroes  of  the  much  slandered  green,  “  Take  that  for  com¬ 
ing  a-night  to  Jane  Smile  1” 

“I  am  sick  of  their  conceits,”  continued  William  ;  “of  their 
catching  me  up,  here  and  everywhere,  in  England  and  in  Ire¬ 
land,  as  their  little  demigod  of  a  faction  or  of  a  sect  ;  as  their 
J  ack-the-giant-queller  of  Whig  against  Tory,  Tory  against  Whig, 
or  Episcopalian  against  Papist.  Fools !  let  them  look  at  the 
effort  of  my  life — of  my  very  boyhood,  and  at  last  understand 
me.  Let  them  see,  why,  step  after  step,  I  won  back  the  poor 
birthright  of  which  my  father  had  been  plundered.  Why  I 
courted  all  the  kings  of  Europe  into  a  league  against  one.  Why 
I  wedded  English  Mary,  in  my  own  good  time,  after  refusing 
her  proffered  hand  by  that  English  lord,  Arlington,  who  took 
me  for  a  child,  to  be  pleased  with  whipt-cream,  and  fine  speeches. 

20 


458 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Why  I  came  to  England.  Why  I  am  in  Ireland.  Why  I  look 
to  fight  a  battle  to-morrow.  Fools  !  I  cry  again,  they  will  not 
think  that  about  this  very  day,  Louis  may  have  defeated  my 
best  ally,  Prince  Waldeck.  Light  me  a  meerschaum,  dear  Ben- 
tick,  and  open  the  cabinet.” 

The  duke  of  Portland,  complying  with  these  orders,  duly  pre¬ 
sented  the  meerschaum,  and  then  unlocked  a  little  portable  case, 
that  would  now  be  called  a  garde-de-vin,  out  of  which  he  took 
the  self-same  black,  Dutch-built  bottle  we  have  already  seen  in 
requisition,  and  filling  from  it  some  bumper  glasses,  presented 
them,  in  rapid  succession,  to  William. 


CHAPTER  XX X Y. 

Evelyn  punctually  obeyed  the  king’s  orders  to  wait  an  hour 
before  he  delivered  the  sealed  papers  to  the  different  officers 
named  by  him.  Remaining  in  General  Douglas’s  tent,  as  he 
deemed  it  his  duty  to  know  if  any  reply  was  to  be  conveyed  to 
William,  he  heard  that  officer  intimate  to  young  Count  Schom- 
berg,  who  was  present,  that,  by  virtue  of  the  instructions  re¬ 
ceived,  they  were  appointed  to  move,  with  the  ten  thousand 
Danes,  on  Slane  Bridge,  at  six  o’clock  in  the  morning.  When 
Evelyn  handed  old  Schomberg  his  dispatch — 

“  Aye,”  grumbled  he,  “  ’tis  as  I  had  expectations — one  writ¬ 
ten  orders  to  tell  me  my  own  business.  Very  well  ;  it  is  the 
first  I  am  ever  sent.” 

Admiring  the  self-dependence  and  energy  of  William,  who,  at 
the  very  time  he  summoned  a  council  of  war,  had  already  deter¬ 
mined  on  every  step  to  be  taken,  Evelyn  repaired  to  the  royal 
hut  to  give  an  account  of  his  mission.  He  was  as  coldly  re¬ 
ceived  f.nd  listened  to,  as  if  he  and  his  business  were  objects  of 
the  utfcost  indifference,  nay,  disgust.  He  was  about  to  retire 
in  equal  disgust,  when  William  commanded  his  attendance. 
The  king  smoked  many  pipes  in  profound  silence,  while  Evelyn 
continued  to  stand.  At  last  he  rose  up,  about  midnight,  ordered 
out  a  troop  of  horse,  and,  accompanied  by  them  and  Portland, 
rode  through  his  whole  encampment,  seeing  that  every  thing  waa 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


459 


as  it  should  be,  in  readiness  for  the  dawn.  Then  he  dismissed 
Evelyn,  coldly  warning  him  to  be  stirring  early. 

Had  his  young  aid-de-camp  felt  peace  at  heart,  he  would, 
doubtless,  have  sought,  during  this  release,  the  refreshing  sleep 
necessary  to  fit  him  for  a  vigorous  observance  of  the  king’s  last 
intimation.  But,  in  the  midst  even  of  the  great  scene  around 
him,  private  sorrows  seized  upon  his  heart.  Scarce  conscious  of 
his  own  movements,  he  walked  out  from  the  valley  of  the  camp, 
gained  the  river’s  side,  and  sauntered  with  its  current. 

One  or  two  circumstances  served  a  little  to  rouse  and  divert 
him.  Approaching,  unseen,  a  picket  formed  of  his  own  native 
troop,  he  heard  them  in  loud  and  furious  conversation,  across 
the  narrow  river,  with  a  patrol  of  the  enemy,  composed  of  Irish 
and  French  soldiers.  The  Frenchmen  had  begun  the  colloquy 
by  wishing  their  foes  a  blithe  good-night  ;  the  Irish  had  chimed 
in  by  inquiring  if  they  found  themselves  as  comfortable  as  on 
the  banks  of  the  Finn,  and  amid  the  bogs  of  Dundalk  ;  adding, 
that  if  such  was  not  the  case,  they,  the  Irish,  would  do  their  best, 
early  in  the  morning,  to  make  them  so.  Both  spoke  in  their 
different  kinds  of  broken  English,  which,  though  only  half  intel¬ 
ligible  to  the  Northerns,  was  sufficiently  comprehended  to  irri¬ 
tate  their  recollections.  They  answered  the  premature  gascon¬ 
ade  by  vituperation  and  threat,  that  showed  a  nature  and  a  mood 
incapable  of  trifling,  and  sullenly  averse  to  any  communion  with 
their  hated  foes,  otherwise  than  what  the  sword  might  permit. 
The  French  and  Irish  laughed  loudly  at  their  wrath,  and  sepa¬ 
rately  wishing  them  “  bon  soil*,”  and  “  bannacth  lath,”  moved  up 
the  heights. 

Passing  the  Enniskilleners,  Evelyn  walked  further  down  the 
river,  and  arrived  at  a  point  where,  from  the  opposite  banks, 
two  vedettes  of  the  different  armies  almost  confronted  each 
other.  These  men,  an  English  and  an  Irish  soldier,  both  good 
specimens  of  their  country,  were  also  in  conversation. 

“  Good-night,  goodman  Teague,”  began  the  Englishman, 
heartily. 

“  Musha,  good-night  to  hur,  kindly,  a-vich,”  answered  the 
other,  jeeringly. 

“  What  dost  un,  there  ?”  continued  Johnny. 

“The  likes  hur  does  there,  I’m  thinkin’,”  replied  Paddy. 

“  Why,  I  be  watching  thee,  belike.” 

“Well,  aroon  ;  one  good  turn  desarves  another.’1 

“  Be’st  un  not  of  the  woild  Irish  folk  ?” 


460. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Avoeh — ay,  God  look  down  on  us  !” 

“  Hast  un  supped,  to-night  ?” 

“  A  thrifle,  accordin’  to  manners.” 

“  Hast  un  drank  enough  ?” 

“  Lashings  an’  lavins.” 

“  Well,  I  only  thought  to  offer  thee  some’at,  if  thee  hadst 
oeen  athirst,  mon.” 

“  Oh,  for  the  matther  o’  that,  I  could  be  dhry  any  time.” 

“  Look  out,  then  and  he  flung  a  leather  bottle  across  the 
river. 

“  Musha,  sweet  war  hur  fist,  an’  good  look  to  hur,”  answered 
Pat,  from  the  opposite  bank,  as  he  stopped  to  pick  it  up. 
“  An’  wait — thry  a  taste  o’  this,”  hurling  across  his  own  ample 
horn. 

“  Health,  goodman  Teague  ;  it  be  proper  brandy,”  resumed 
John,  duly  availing  himself  of  the  invitation. 

“  An’  here’s  tow’ds  hur  good  health,  too,”  cried  the  other. 

And  Evelyn  walked  on,  pleased  with  the  manly  communion 
of  the  soldier  foes,  which,  he  perceived,  could  happen  between 
fair  enemies  of  the  two  countries,  while  between  the  mongrel 
factions  of  one,  mean  though  deadly  rancor  forbid  its  occur¬ 
rence. 

These  incidents,  together  with  the  balm  of  the  summer  night- 
breeze,  and  the  growing  interest  of  the  scene  around,  soothed, 
as  much  as  was  possible,  the  agonized  thoughts  of  Evelyn.  He 
turned  from  the  river,  and  ascending  the  little  eminence  to  his 
left,  walked  back  towards  the  ford  of  Oldbridge,  until  he  found 
himself  about  the  spot  where,  during  the  day,  William  had  been 
slightly  wounded.  And  now,  the  observation  of  eye  and  of 
mind,  which  his  situation  compelled  him  to  take,  almost  wholly 
abstracted  him,  for  a  time,  from  his  individual  griefs  and  inter¬ 
ests. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  past  midnight.  The  moon  had  set,  the  sky 
was  overcast  by  an  unbroken  mass  of  low,  black,  sultry  clouds, 
md  the  darkest  night  that  the  turn  of  the  summer  solstice  cau 
bring,  brooded  under  them.  A  glance  downward,  at  his  right, 
showed  him  William’s  encampment.  He  had  but  to  turn  his 
eye,  and  look  across  the  river,  to  get  a  view  of  almost  the  whole 
present  disposition  of  the  enemy. 

The  bosom  of  the  little  valley,  so  close  to  him,  and  the  ravines 
in  its  sides,  were  numerously  strewn  with  tents,  and,  here  and 
there,  with  a  light  and  temporary  hut,  or  rather  summer  bower, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


461 


made  of  boughs,  leaves,  rushes,  and  sods.  But,  owing  to  the 
closeness  of  the  midsummer  night,  few  of  the  troops,  either  officers 
or  men,  remained  under  cover  of  any  kind  ;  choosing  rather  to 
stretch  themselves  in  clusters,  on  the  soft  sward,  while  their  piles 
of  brilliant  arms  were  scattered  through  them,  flashing  in  the 
flicker  of  the  numerous  watch-fires,  of  which  ^the  united  blaze 
almost  vividly  illuminated  the  valley.  Some,*  who  could  not  or 
would  not  sleep,  stood  over  their  supine  brethren  iu  solitary 
groups,  or  sat  upon  the  most  mossy  knolls  of  the  valley,  whisper¬ 
ing,  if,  indeed,  they  spoke  at  all,  their  hopes,  fears,  or  sensations. 
While  hundreds  of  the  horses,  left  free  to  graze,  or  lie  down, 
shared  their  watchfulness  and  inaction,  and,  with  a  touching 
instinct  of  companionship,  either  gathered  round,  as  if  they 
could  listen  to  the  midnight  comments  of  their  masters,  or  with 
drooping  heads  and  necks,  bent  over  those  who  were  sleeping. 

The  open  picture  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Boyne  was  a 
relief  to  this  close  scene.  To  the  right  and  to  the  left,  as  far 
as  Evelyn  could  see,  appeared  the  enemy’s  fires,  still  more  numer¬ 
ous  than  those  of  his  friends,  occupying  height  after  height, 
from  the  river,  until  partial  illuminations  in  the  murky  sky  alone 
told  that  they  continued,  out  of  view,  over  the  country  beyond 
the  encampment.  Around  them,  now  iu  unshaped  blackness, 
now  touched  with  red  flame,  moved  the  few  waking  soldiers  of 
James’s  army  ;  dark  masses  that  predominated  over  the  sombre 
green  of  the  hills,  indicating  different  portions  of  his  main  force, 
sunk  in  sleep,  or  else  closely  keeping  a  position.  The  tents  round 
Dunore  Hill  confusedly  gleamed,  like  white  stones,  or  flocks  of 
sheep,  in  darkness  and  distance.  The  windows  of  a  little  village, 
half-way,  in  a  diagonal  direction,  between  Evelyn  and  the  camp, 
glimmered,  while  partially  seen,  with  interior  lights.  Old  houses, 
immediately  opposite  to  him,  and  very  near  the  water’s  edge, 
also  gave  out  a  strong  light.  From  a  church,  on  the  pinnacle 
of  Dunore  Hill,  came  the  most  vivid  glow  of  all  ;  seeming  to 
intimate  that  within  its  walls  James  had  taken  up  his  quarters. 

But  whatever  might  be  their  different  appearances,  both  hosts 
were  wrapped  in  the  same  awful  silence  and  inaction.  No  sound 
came  on  Evelyn’s  ear,  save  the  footsteps  of  a  sentinel  near  at 
hand,  the  distant  tramp  of  a  horse  patrol,  or  the  murmurs  of  the 
gentle  river,  as  it  rippled  over  the  shallows  of  Oldbridge  ford, 
and  wound  on  its  course,  black  under  the  clouds  of  midnight. 
The  contrast  between  the  simple  and  sylvan  scenery  at  either 
hand,  and  the  armed  bands  who  now  occupied  it,  strongly 


462 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


occurred  to  Evelyn — the  one  so  quiet,  inviting  peace  ;  the  others 
come  to  fill  it  with  war  and  horror.  Between  their  own  present 
repose,  and  the  purposes  that  filled  their  bosoms,  and  the  fierce 
action  into  which  they  would  start  by  morning,  a  still  stronger 
contrast  arose.  And  then,  Evelyn  could  not  avoid  feeling  deep¬ 
est  awe  as  he  fou^d  himself  waking  and  watching  amid  the  sleep 
of  so  many  hostile  thousands,,  over  whom,  as  in  contempt  of 
their  petty  differences,  nature  asserted  the  common  dominion  that 
proclaimed  them  her  common  children. 

Nor,  ere  he  bade  farewell  to  the  scene,  could  Evelyn  refrain 
from  considering  the  importance  of  the  circumstances  that  had 
brought  it  before  him,  and  of  the  results  that,  one  way  or 
another,  must  flow  from  its  change  into  the  morning  battle.  He 
looked  upon  the  armies  of  two  rival  kings,  headed  by  the  rivals 
in  person,  and  about  to  strike  a  blow  for  the  crown  of  three 
kingdoms.  The  political  position  of  millions  hung  upon  that 
blow  ;  the  extinction  or  perpetuation  of  a  line  of  kings  ;  above 
all,  the  great  question  of  the  legitimacy,  and  the  divine  right  of 
kings.  Nay,  differently  connected  as  William  and  James  were 
with  the  hostile  politics  of  the  continent,  the  termination  of  to¬ 
morrow’s  sanguinary  struggle  must  have  a  strong  influence  on 
the  whole  state  of  affairs  throughout  Europe — throughout  the 
world.  The  misery  or  happiness  of  the  greater  portion  of  man¬ 
kind  was  connected  with  the  “  coming  event,”  and  thus  the  cal¬ 
culations  upon  it  swelled  into  tremendous  interest.  Overpowered 
by  them,  Evelyn  descended  the  eminence,  and  retired  to  his 
hut. 

He  thought  it  was  impossible  he  could  sleep,  under  the  press¬ 
ure  of  the  mixed  interests,  private  and  public,  that  bore  upon 
him.  Yet  he  was  beguiled  into  a  slumber,  from  which  the  souud 
of  a  drum  aroused  him  ;  and  starting  up,  he  hastened  to  Wil¬ 
liam’s  quarters.  As  he  moved  through  the  camp,  all  was  stern 
hum  and  bustle.  While  the  qfchoes  of  the  opposite  bauk  repeated 
the  brisk  summons  of  the  English  drum,  other  drums  rolled  their 
answering  signals  through  James’s  lines.  It  was  broad  daylight. 

Eearful  of  having  overslept  himself,  Evelyn  stood  before  the 
king  in  some  misgiving.  A  severe,  though  careless,  rebuke  he 
did  encounter  ;  but  William  was  too  busy  to  pay  him  much 
attention.  All  his  officers  of  division  stood  around  him,  armed 
and  braced — some  pale  with  intense  expectation.  But  he  sat  in 
the  midst,  as  unmoved  almost  as  a  statue.  His  last  orders  to 
Douglas  and  young  Schomberg  seemed  to  have  been  just  com- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


4G3 


pleted,  for  they  bowed,  as  Evelyn  entered,  and  soon  withdrew 
from  the  cabin. 

“  With  them,  Bentinck  and  Auverkirke,”  he  said,  after  a 
short  pause  ;  and  the  two  persons  named  also  quickly  departed. 

“  Stand  to  your  arms  where  you  are,  Duke  Schomberg,”  he 
continued,  “  until  we  know  how  they  speed  up  the  river  ;  then 
let  Caillemotte,  first,  cross  at  Oldbridge ;  and  do  you  follow, 
when  ’tis  necessary.  The  Dutch  and  Enniskillen  horse,  with  a 
reserve  of  the  Danes,  and  the  few  English,  shall  move,  under 
ourself,  down  towards  Drogheda.  Farewell,  and  speed  ye.” 

He  was  left  alone  with  Evelyn  and  two  other  aids-de-camp. 
He  took  a  turn,  slowly,  through  the  cabin  ;  then  moved  to  the 
door,  snatched  the  reins  of  his  charger  from  the  soldier  who 
waited  with  it,  bounded  into  the  saddle,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
stood,  with  his  aids-de-camp,  on  the  brow  of  the  second  eminence, 
which  gave  a  full  view  of  the  enemy’s  ground. 

A  soul  stirring  scene  presented  itself  to  Evelyn.  To  his  right, 
along  the  banks  of  the  river,  the  ten  thousand  Danes,  under 
young  Schomberg  and  Douglas,,  already  appeared  moving  on 
Slaue.  They  were  excellent  troops,  handsomely  appointed  ;  and 
their  long  and  bristling  line  of  bayonets,  winding  along  the 
Boyne,  and  flashing  in  the  fresh  sunshine  of  the  now  unclouded 
morning,  advanced  in  fine  order.  Upon  the  opposite  bank, 
large  bodies  of  Irish  infantry  were  rapidly  taking  possession  of 
breastworks,  thrown  up  at  the  fort  of  Oldbridge  ;  of  ruined 
houses,  some  distance  behind,  and  of  ditches  still  behind  the 
houses  ;  their  motley  uniform,  their  rusty  half-pikes,  supported 
with  but  few  firelocks,  their  naked  legs,  and  altogether  their 
wild  appearance,  forming  a  strange  contrast  to  the  soldier-like 
lines  of  their  enemies.  James  had  wished  to  post  his  only  reg¬ 
ular  troops,  the  French  infantry,  at  this  important  point ;  but 
the  Irish,  offended,  and  devoted,  though  uncalculating,  furiously 
opposed  the  order  ;  claimed,  as  their  right,  the  post  of  danger  ; 
and  ran  to  take  possession  of  it,  threatening  to  fire  on  whomso¬ 
ever  should  oppose  them.  During  their  hasty  movements,  much 
bustle  could  be  noticed  at  the  camp  of  Dunorc.  Presently,  sev¬ 
eral  squadron  of  horse,  and  a  line  of  French  foot,  successively 
parted  from  it,  and  keeping  almost  at  the  top  of  the  continued 
swells,  up  the  river,  passed  Oldbridge,  obviously  detached  to 
oppose  Douglas  and  young  Schomberg.  At  the  same  time, 
another  considerable  body  of  horse  descended,  obliquely,  one  or 
two  eminences  that  swept  from  Dunore  towards  the  river,  and,  as 


464 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


if  to  support  the  Irish  infantry,  posted  in  the  breastworks,  houses, 
and  ditches,  hovered,  some  time,  about  the  heights,  and  at  last 
settled,  like  a  storm-swayed  cloud,  immediately  over  them. 

As  soon  as  Douglas  and  Schomberg  saw  the  counteracting 
motions  of  the  lines  sent  against  them,  their  trumpets  sounded, 
their  drums  beat,  their  raven  standards  fluttered  quicker  in  the 
breeze  ;  and  Evelvn  could  observe,  though  the  vast  line  was  now 
at  a  good  distance,  that  all  the  horse  stationed  behind  passed 
the  infantry  with  great  speed,  joined  their  brethren  in  front,  and 
pushed  on  with  them,  in  a  separate  body,  leaving  the  foot-soldiers 
to  follow  as  they  could.  At  the  same  moment,  their  observant 
enemies,  on  the  other  side,  made  a  similar  manoeuvre  ;  their 
horse  straining  along  the  high  ground  at  a  gallop,  in  order  to 
pull  up  the  advantage,  in  distance,  possessed  by  the  Danes  ; 
while  the  light  French  infantry  tracked  them,  in  double-quick 
time,  both  horses  and  men  occasionally  falling  and  scrambling 
over  the  difficult  ground,  and  every  nerve  strained  to  recover 
from  such  disasters,  and  answer  the  chiding  and  imperious  calls 
of  their  drums  and  trumpets,  in  advance.  Thus,  before  a  blow 
was  struck,  the  preluding  contest  between  those  two  divisions  of 
the  hostile  armies,  had  powerful  interest  in  the  mind  of  Evelyn. 
He  panted  with  anxiety  as,  changing  his  glance  from  one  side  of 
the  river  to  the  other,  he  saw  how,  step  by  step,  the  different 
parties  gained  or  lost  an  advantage  ;  until,  owing  to  an  abrupt 
elbow  formed  by  the  river,  both  at  last  disappeared,  to  meet  five 
miles  higher  up,  and  there  bring  to  a  clash  their  fierce  rivalry. 

As  soon  as  they  had  retired  out  of  view,  some  field-pieces, 
from  Dunore  Hill,  and  the  midheights  above  Oldbridge,  began 
to  play  on  such  small  detachments,  or  reconnoitering  parties  of 
the  English  force,  as  were  to  be  seen.  William,  who,  all  along, 
had  watched  the  progress  of  the  Danes  with  obvious  satisfaction, 
now  sent  an  aid-de-camp  to  get  into  motion  the  left  wing,  of 
about  five  thousand  horse,  which  awaited  his  command  to  move 
down  the  river,  between  the  two  camps  and  Drogheda.  In  a 
few  minutes  they  were  ready.  Forming  them  out  of  shot  and 
sight  of  the  enemy,  behind  the  eminences  on  which  he  had  hith¬ 
erto  stood,  and  placing  himself  at  their  head,  he  immediately 
led  them  towards  their  position,  still  endeavoring,  by  every 
possible  change  of  ground,  to  gain  it  without  observation  from 
Dunore  Hill. 

Advancing  very  slowly  and  cautiously,  he  was  able,  after  the 
lapse  of  about  an  hour,  to  accomplish  his  object.  Under  cover 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


465 


of  the  last  descent  between  him  and  the  Boyne,  and  immediately 
opposite  to  the  ford  which,  at  the  proper  moment,  he  intended 
to  pass,  William  at  last  halted  his  five  thousand  horse.  In  this 
situation,  Dunore  Hill,  previously  to  his  left,  was  at  his  right  ; 
Drogheda  down  the  river  ;  his  centre,  about  two  Euglish  miles 
up  from  him  ;  and  Slane,  as  has  been  said,  about  five  from  it , 
so  that  his  entire  line  now  extended  over  a  distance  of  about 
seven  English  miles. 

In  profound  silence  did  he  halt  his  people  ;  without  word  or 
motion  did  he  sit  in  his  saddle,  at  their  head.  Not  a  whisper 
was  breathed  amongst  them,  as  they  stood  motionless  as  himself 
Even  his  dragged  features  underwent  no  change.  But,  in  this, 
few  of  his  soldiers  were  able  to  imitate  him.  Their  color  waned 
and  came  from  time  to  time,  as  expectation,  suspense,  or  anxiety 
checkered  their  thoughts.  And  while  the  fitful  cannonading 
which  they  had  left  behind,  about  the  centre  of  the  line,  visited 
them  in  their  distant  and  lonely  place,  eye  turned  to  eye  for  a 
solution  of  the  cause  or  result  of  its  continuance.  Evelyn  most 
acutely  felt  the  inactive  and  painful  pause.  His  solicitude  to 
learn  something  of  the  attempt  on  Slane  was  excessive.  He 
listened,  to  catch,  if  possible,  the  remote  noise  of  small-arms, 
which,  as  the  light  breeze  blew  fair  down  the  river,  he  hoped 
might  be  conveyed  along  the  gentle  water,  and  so  proclaim,  at 
the  least,  that  the  hostile  divisions  had  met. 

Near  another  hour  elapsed  ere  he  heard  something  like  the 
sounds  he  so  earnestly  expected.  At  the  same  moment,  William 
slightly  moved  in  his  saddle  ;  his  eyebrows  were  elevated,  and  a 
faint  flush  came  to  his  cheek.  The  distant  reports  of  musketry 
continued,  but  he  grew  perfectly  calm  again  ;  only  drawing  out  his 
massive  watch,  as  if  to  mark  the  time  at  which  he  might  expect 
intelligence  of  a  certain  event. 

Within  the  second  hour  after  his  arrival  on  the  slope,  William 
once  more  showed  signs  of  animation,  quickly  turning  his  head 
to  the  right.  Evelyn  heard  the  gallop  of  a  single  horseman, 
coming  nearer  every  moment.  Cannon  and  musketry  shots 
echoed,  simultaneously,  from  the  contiguous  bank  of  the  river, 
opposite  to  William,  seeming  to  intimate  that  the  rider  was  their 
mark.  In  a  few  minutes  the  express,  pale  and  agitated,  swept 
iuto  the  dell  ;  spurred  towards  William,  who  now  anxiously 
turned  to  hear  his  news  ;  took  off  his  hat ;  extended  his  arm, 
and  moved  his  lips,  as  if  makiug  a  convulsive  effort  to  speak.  At 
the  next  bound  of  his  horse,  he  dropped  lifeless  from  the  saddle. 

20* 


m 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


4‘  Fool  1”  said  William,  bitterly  rather  than  impatiently, 
44  could  he  not  have  shunned  their  shot  ?  Ride,  sir,  ride,”  to 
one  of  his  aids-de-camp,  a  fine  young  man — 44  ride  to  the  centre, 
and  bring  me  their  tidings  ;  and  now,  as  time  is  precious,  take 
the  shortest  wav  bv  the  bank  of  the  river.’’ 

•/  f 

With  first  a  pale,  and  then  a  high-colored  cheek,  the  gallant 
youth  spurred  off.  Again  some  near  shots  were  heard  from  the 
opposite  bank,  followed  by  the  shout  of  a  few  voices.  William 
frowned,  vexatiously,  and — 

44  Follow  him,  sir,”  he  said  to  Evelyn,  who,  in  another  instant, 
was  sweeping  along  the  river’s  edge,  completely  exposed  to  the 
fire  of  some  concealed  foes  at  the  other  side.  He  had  sped  but 
a  short  distance,  when  his  horse  swerved  at  the  sight  of  the 
young  aid-de-camp,  lying  motionless  on  the  sward. 

44  Can  I  aid  you,  sir  ?”  asked  Evelyn.  No  answer  came  ;  and, 
as  he  spoke,  his  own  steed  fell  dead  under  him. 

44  Let  me  bear  you  aside,”  he  continued,  extricating  himself, 
unhurt,  from  the  animal.  But  at  another  glance,  he  saw  that 
the  youth  was  completely  lifeless.  A  shot  had  reached  him  in 
the  very  heart  ;  and  the  blood  now  burst  through  his  mouth. 

Seizing  his  horse,  which  stood  near  his  dead  master,  Evelyn 
sprang  into  the  saddle  ;  pursued  his  course  at  fiery  speed  ;  gained 
the  glen  of  the  camp  ;  spoke  briefly  with  Schomberg  ;  and  re¬ 
turned  with  his  tidings  to  the  king  ;  choosing,  however,  a  less 
dangerous  route  than  that  by  which  he  had  left  him. 

44  The  pass  at  Slane  has  been,  at  first,  easily  carried,  my  liege  ; 
the  enemy’s  horse  pursued  by  Count  Schomberg,  round  a  great 
bog,  towards  Dnleek  ;  and  their  infantry,  by  Douglas,  through 
the  bog  itself,  they  not  having  been  up  in  time  to  show  any 
force,  or  form  in  a  body.  But  strong  re-enforcements  have  since 
reached  them  from  Dunore.  They  have  rallied,  and  gained  their 
lost  ground.  Douglas  has  sent  to  the  centre  for  re-enforcements, 
also  ;  and  Duke  Schomberg  waits  the  result.” 

44  And  has  he  not  himself  yet  moved  on  Oldbridge  ?” 

44  Not  yet,  my  liege  ;  considering  that — ” 

44  Back,  sir,”  interrupted  William.  44  Let  him  now  try  them 
there,  however  it  may  go  at  Slane.  The  different  regiments,  i». 
turn,  as  I  have  notified.  Await  you  the  trial,  and  again  come 
back  to  report  it.” 

A  brief  space  brought  Evelyn,  a  second  time,  to  the  side  of 
his  old  commander.  Schomberg  heard,  with  displeasure,  the 
orders  to  cross  the  ford  of  Oldbridge.  It  was  not  time,  he  said 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


467 


Bui,  conformably  to  previous  arrangement,  he  noticed  his  early 
and  long-tried  friend,  the  brave  Caillemotte,  to  lead  over  the  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  centre  ;  himself  still  remaining  near  the  gorge  of 
the  glen,  surrounded  by  a  strong  reserve,  all  infantry. 

Old  Caillemotte  readily  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  Dutch 
Guards,  and  his  own  French  Protestants,  and  led  them,  shout¬ 
ing,  from  the  glen,  whence  a  few  moments  brought  them,  by  a 
turn  to  the  left,  straight  upon  the  ford.  The  Brandenbergians, 
emulative  of  glory,  could  not  be  restrained  from  following  them  ; 
and  about  ten  thousand  foot  plunged  at  once  into  the  river. 
Evelyn,  his  intense  interest  stronger  than  his  personal  fears, 
galloped  to  the  bank,  and  there  stood  to  witness  the  event. 

So  sudden  an  obstruction  to  the  stream  of  the  river  caused  it 
to  swell,  and  many  of  the  soldiers  waded  across,  hip  high,  under 
a  scanty  and  ill-directed  fire  from  the  Irish,  who  possessed  the 
breastworks  and  old  houses.  Rapidly  forming,  as  they  gained  the 
hostile  bank,  the  brave  foreigners  instantly  attacked  their  foes. 
Before  the  whole  advance  had  crossed,  the  Irish  abandoned,  first 
the  breastworks,  and  then  the  houses,  leaving  the  enemy  in  easy 
possession  of  the  ground  they  had  been  too  anxious  to  occupy. 
But,  at  this  moment,  Evelyn  saw  a  movement  among  the  dense 
body  of  horse,  over  them.  In  a  few  seconds,  down  swept  the 
formidable  reserve,  as  if  impelled  by  ungovernable  fury  and  in¬ 
dignation  at  the  retreat  of  their  brethren.  They  came  upon  the 
Dutch  and  French  regiments  like  a  tornado  ;  charged  them, 
with  frantic  shouts,  and  broke  through  them  in  all  directions. 
Their  commander  singled  out  Caillemotte,  upon  the  verge  of  the 
bank  ;  Evelyn  recognized  young  Hamilton.  After  a  few  passes, 
Caillemotte  fell  ;  and  treble  confusion  now  seized  the  French 
and  Dutch  troops,  who  were  cut  down  at  every  side,  and  forced 
back  across  the  ford.  The  Brandenbergians,  the  last  who  had 
attempted  it,  turned  and  fled  precipitately  through  the  water, 
by  the  place  where  Evelyn  stood  ;  the  French  followed  them. 
Some  of  the  Irish  horse  pursued  the  Dutch  at  the  opposite  side  ; 
and  Hamilton,  heading  the  rest,  galloped  through  the  river  after 
the  fugitives. 

Ere  he  gained  the  English  bank,  Evelyn  flew  to  Schomberg. 
At  the  news  of  Caillemotte’s  fall,  the  aged  general  flushed  red 
with  anger  ;  not  waiting  to  put  on  his  corselet  or  helmet,  gave 
the  word  to  his  reserve  to  follow,  and  rushed  towards  the  ford. 
Hamilton  did  not  appear,  being,  unknown  to  Schomberg,  lower 
down  on  the  bank.  Evelyn,  instinctively  asserted  his  place  at 


468 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


the  old  marshal’s  side.  They  met  in  their  way  the  Branden* 
bergians,  and  the  broken  French  regiments ;  rallied  them  ;  and 
Schomberg,  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  the  latter,  led  them 
a  second  time  across.  In  the  middle  of  the  water  he  was  stopped 
by  two  or  three  soldiers,  bearing  the  dying  Caillemotte. 

“  My  old  and  faithful  friend  1”  cried  Schomberg,  clasping  his 
hand. 

“  To  glory,  my  lads,  to  glory  !”  shouted  Caillemotte,  and  died. 

“  Gentlemen,  behold  your  persecutors  !”  Schomberg  instantly 
exclaimed,  turning  to  the  French  soldiers,  and  splashing  onward. 

The  reserve  he  had  ordered  to  follow  him  advanced  but 
slowly.  Only  about  a  thousand  of  its  number  had  as  yet  entered 
the  river,  and  this  was  a  foot  regiment  of  Enniskilleners,  headed 
by  George  Walker.  As  Schomberg,  with  the  French,  Branden- 
bergians,  and  the  natives  allies,  again  showed  a  formidable  front 
on  the  Irish  bank,  the  galloping  of  horse  sounded  behind,  and 
Hamilton,  accompanied  by  his  troop,  dashed  back  across  the 
ford,  passed  the  Enniskilleners,  a  second  time  broke  through 
the  French,  regained  his  own  side,  surrounded  and  hurried 
Schomberg  and  Evelyn  along,  and,  at  some  distance  from  the 
river,  turned  upon  the  old  general,  and  called  on  him  to  surrender. 

The  answer  was  a  thrust  of  Schomberg’s  sword,  which,  with 
some  difficulty,  he  parried,  and  they  engaged  furiously,  while 
Evelyn  was  held  prisoner  by  two  soldiers.  After  some  enraged 
efforts  on  Schomberg’s  part,  impetuosity  and  the  weakness  of 
old  age  exhausted  him.  Hamilton  observed  this,  and  reining 
back  his  horse,  said — 

“  Surrender,  brave  old  man.  Let  some  younger  colleague — 
let  your  son,  whom  to-day  I  long  to  meet,  fight  out  this  matter 
with  me.” 

“  Boy  !”  cried  the  insulted,  not  soothed  old  soldier,  “  content 
you  with  what  his  father  can  do  I”  And  he  spurred  to  his  an¬ 
tagonist,  again  strong  in  vengeance.  The  approachiug  tramp  of 
infantry  was  heard  ;  immediately  their  fire  flew  among  the  Irish 
troop  ;  and  a  shot  from  one  of  his  own  soldiers  brought  Schom¬ 
berg  to  the  ground,  quite  dead. 

“  Wretches  !”  roared  Hamilton,  fiercely  facing  them,  while 
his  troop  fell  back,  leaving  Evelyn  free.  “  What  slave  among 
you  fired  that  shot  ?” 

“  ’Twas  I  !”  answered  the  foremost  soldier  of  the  Enniskillen- 
ers,  yet  ignorant  of  its  real  effect,  as  he  covered  Hamilton  with 
his  musket. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


469 


“  Then  be  it  your  last  I”  And  ere  the  man  could  pull  a  trigger, 
his  skull  was  cleft  to  his  eyes. 

“  Charge !”  he  continued,  as  almost  his  entire  body  of  horse 
gathered  round  him,  and,  at  the  same  time,  some  regiments  of 
French  infantry,  rising  from  the  near  heights,  where  none  had 
expected  to  see  them,  threatened  the  right  of  the  English  centre, 
who  were  still  crossing  the  ford,  while  the  Irish  foot  also  rallied, 
returned  to  some  of  their  posts,  and  showed  a  determined  face. 
By  this  time,  too,  the  news  of  Schomberg’s  death  spread,  like  a 
blight,  among  his  soldiers  ;  the  whole  centre  of  the  English 
force  shook  under  the  announcement  ;  and  at  Hamilton’s  re¬ 
newed  charge,  the  Irish  side  of  the  river  became  wholly  cleared 
of  its  foes.  The  French  Protestants,  the  Brandenbergians,  the 
surviving  Dutch,  the  English  regiments,  and,  notwithstanding 
the  superhuman  bravery  of  George  Walker,  the  Enniskilleners 
all  fell  back  in  confusion  to  their  own  bank. 

Evelyn  found  himself  irresistibly  involved  in  the  retreat,  mixed 
up  with  the  Enniskilleners,  and  very  near  the  Bishop  of  Derry. 
One  small  body  of  horse,  the  wildest-looking  of  the  wild  force, 
furiously  and  rashly  pressed  them  through  the  water,  and  even 
pushed  on,  unsupported,  after  the  whole  English  centre.  Evelyn 
recognized  in  the  mad  leader  of  these  madmen  his  old  acquaint¬ 
ance,  Friar  O’Haggerty.  Nor  was  Walker  slow  in  discovering 
him.  As  soon  as  the  friar  had  reached  the  hostile  bank,  the 
bishop  adroitly  wheeled  round  him,  and  cut  him  off  from  retreat, 
with  a  few  of  his  troop. 

“  Well  met  at  last,  brother,”  he  said,  confronting  him.  “  Time 
settles  all  accounts.  ’Tis  some  long  years  since  you  promised  to 
meet  me  here,  and  make  a  certain  story  good.” 

“  It  is,”  answered  the  friar  ;  “  but,  with  the  Lord’s  help,  now 
I  hold  my  promise,  if  you  like  the  ground.” 

“There  needs  not  better,”  resumed  Walker,  “with  God  to 
judge  between  us.  Keep  your  stand.” 

He  drew  a  pistol  from  tiis  belt,  and  fired  at  O’Haggerty,  who 
instantly  returned  the  shot.  Their  swords  flew  out,  and  clashed 
around  their  heads.  They  closed,  seized  each  other’s  weapons, 
and  dragged  each  other  from  their  saddles.  The  fall  loosed  the 
hold  of  both  ;  they  started  to  their  feet,  and  renewed  the  con¬ 
test  in  a  silence  only  broken  by  the  toilsome  breathing  for  life  or 
death  ;  their  teeth  clenched  ;  their  features  set  and  stiffened,  as 
if  the  muscles  had  been  changed  to  iron  ;  and  their  eyes  shoot* 
ing  forth,  with  basilisk  intensity,  the  deadly  hate  that  filled  them 


470 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


The  strife  was  short ;  O’Haggerty  reeled  and  fell  beneath  a 
dreadful  blow,  and,  as  he  went  down,  the  bishop’s  point  twice 
pierced  his  throat.  Walker  stood  over  him  an  instant,  his  stern 
regards  changing  to  a  grim  smile  as  he  contemplated  his  victory. 
The  friar  stirred,  and  he  drew  and  cocked  a  pistol,  to  make  all 
certain.  While  his  glances  were,  for  a  second,  thus  diverted, 
the  dying  man  slowly  opened  his  eyes,  fixed  them  on  Walker, 
stealthily  placed  his  hand  on  a  long  skein  under  his  cloak,  again 
closed  his  eyes,  and,  as  the  blood  gurgled  in  his  throat,  seemed 
resigned  to  the  last  agony. 

“  Friar,”  in  his  usual  slow  and  steady  tone,  began  the  bishop, 
when,  with  a  sudden  and  unexpected  effort,  the  prostrate  man 
sprang  up,  seized  his  conqueror  by  the  breast,  whose  pistol  was 
instantly  discharged,  with  the  muzzle  to  his  head,  but  not  before 
he  had  buried  his  hideous  weapon,  to  the  hilt,  in  Walker’s  ab¬ 
domen.  Then,  falling  lifeless,  he  dragged  upon  his  own  body, 
with  the  gripe  of  a  bull-dog,  his  mortally  wounded  foe. 

This  scene,  occurring  in  much  shorter  time  than  it  has  taken 
to  describe,  obviously  excited  the  horror  of  the  very  soldiers 
whose  trade  was  carnage.  But  of  none  of  the  spectators  so 
much  as  Evelyn,  who,  acquainted  with  the  long  nurtured  hatred 
between  the  two  ecclesiastics,  and  recollecting  that  to  them  was 
mankind  partly  indebted  for  the  civil  war  that  now  desolated 
his  country,  witnessed  such  a  consummation  of  their  mutual  big¬ 
otry,  on  the  very  field  they  had  fomented,  with  a  sickening  of 
heart  against  the  whole  cause,  and  a  feeling  that  degraded  the 
chivalry  of  a  well-fought  day  into  a  cruel  and  sanguinary  conflict 
between  petty  passions  and  sordid  interests,  and  a  blasphemous 
outrage  upon  the  name  and  the  charities  of  God. 

Disgusted  and  dispirited,  he  put  his  horse  in  motion  to  return 
to  W illiam  j  leaving  the  whole  centre  of  the  army  content  to 
form,  as  well  as  they  could,  at  their  own  side  of  the  Boyne. 
Hamilton  was  content  to  stand  opposite  to  them,  now  supported 
by  the  French  and  Irish  infantry,  as  if  awaiting  the  answer  of 
some  expresses  he  had  sent  to  Dunore,  probably  for  re-enforce¬ 
ments  ;  his  force  being  still  much  inferior  to  his  antagonists, 
particularly  since  they  had  all  rallied  and  got  firmly  together. 

“  S’death,  sir  1”  cried  William,  the  moment  Evelyn  approached 
him  in  his  lonely  defile,  where,  like  a  kite  in  a  cage,  he  had  for 
some  time  been  impatiently  snuffing  his  quarry  afar  off,  until  ad 
last  his  appetite  grew  wild  with  provocation.  “  S’death,  sir  ; 
what  a  loitering  knave  art  thou  !  Here  has  been  one  of  my 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


471 


people  to  the  river’s  brink,  half  an  hour  since,  and  returned  with 
news  that  it  ran  from  Oldbridge  foul  with  mud,  and  some  red¬ 
der  stains,  perchance.  How  fares  the  centre  ?” 

“  Repulsed,  my  liege.” 

“  Slaves  1”  dashing  spurs  iuto  his  charger — but  suddenly 
reigning  him  up — “  and  the  right  ?” 

“No  news  from  them  since,  sir,  and — ” 

“  Forward  !”  roared  William,  again  furiously  urging  his  horse, 
as  he  turned  to  his  men,  and  down  to  the  river’s  edge  he  instant¬ 
ly  dashed,  they  and  Evelyn  following.  The  bank  where  he 
gained  it  was  high  ;  but  in  he  plunged  without  a  second’s  pause, 
and  in  a  few  moments  gained,  with  his  left  wing,  the  opposite 
side. 

“  Forward  1”  still  he  cried,  here  pausing  an  instant,  as,  disen¬ 
gaging  his  wounded  arm  from  the  sling  he  had  been  prevailed 
upon,  over-night,  to  rest  it  in,  he  drew  his  sword,  and  waived  it 
round  his  head.  “  Forward,  gentlemen,  to  win,  alone,  this  blun¬ 
dering  day,  and  teach  yon  saucy  kerne  their  distance  1  On  their 
flank  !  their  flank  !  wherever  they  appear !  Courage,  my  friends, 
and  victory  !  Huzza  !” 

They  cheered  loud,  and  galloped  after  him.  Small  bodies  ol 
Irish  horse  were  instantly  seen  flying  from  their  reconnoitering 
points,  along  the  river,  and  making  for  Dunore  Hill,  or  passing 
it,  as  if  to  approach  the  Irish  centre  at  Oldbridge.  Evelyn 
spurred  amain  to  keep  by  William’s  side. 

“  Caillemotte  is  down,  my  liege,”  he  exclaimed,  during  the 
furious  ride. 

“  Then  I  have  lost  a  brave  officer,”  said  the  king. 

“  And  old  Schomberg,  too,  sir.” 

“Is  he  ?  He  should  have  died  sooner.”  Spurring  hard. 

“  And  Bishop  Walker,”  continued  Evelyn. 

“  The  fool !  what  did  he  there  ?”*  asked  William. 

They  soon  passed  Dunore  Hill,  under  a  dropping  fire  of  field- 
pieces  and  small-arms,  that  did  little  execution,  and  came  in  sight 
of  a  considerable  body  of  French  and  Irish  horse  and  foot,  that, 
seemingly  detached,  in  part  from  Oldbridge,  and  in  part  from 
Dunore,  were  hastily  forming  on  the  slope  of  a  spacious  ascent, 
the  second  between  Oldbridge  and  the  other  point  mentioned. 
A  little  village,  called  Sheephouse,  approached  by  a  winding 
lane — of  which  almost  all  vestiges  are  now  gone — was  behind 

*  Dalrymple,  p.  40,  b.  2,  vol. 


472 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


them.  As  soon  as  William’s  falcon  eye  caught  sight  of  the  foe, 
he  pointed  them  out  to  his  people,  again  waived  his  sword, 
cheered,  and  led  the  way,  still  in  a  furious  gallop,  against  the 
swelling  ground. 

At  the  distance  of  about  fifty  yards,  he  was  saluted  by  a  de¬ 
structive  volley  of  musketry.  Numbers  of  his  soldiers  dropped, 
and  horses  and  men  went  rolling  down  the  slope.  Another  vol¬ 
ley  had  equal  effect.  Still  William  pressed  on.  Now  the  smoke 
of  their  own  firing  completely  hid  his  enemies.  Evelyn,  as  in 
terrible  excitement,  and  some  confusion,  he  kept  at  the  king’s 
side,  could  see  nothing  but  a  gray  and  dense  cloud,  out  of  which 
issued  the  quick  and  faint  flashes  that  sent  death  among  his 
comrades.  But  suddenly,  at  the  command  of  a  rising  breeze,  it 
parted — rolled  off — and  he  beheld,  within  a  few  plunges  of  his 
steed,  the  close  ranks  of  French  and  Irish  foot,  brindling,  in 
front,  with  bayonets  and  rude  pikes,  and  wildly  contrasted  in 
uniform  and  equipment.  At  their  left,  a  strong  body  of  horse 
were  just  prancing  into  a  charge. 

The  charge,  a  mutual  one,  was  given  ;  breast  to  breast  the 
hostile  steeds  met.  In  the  tremendous  shock,  their  rival  masters 
broke  through  each  other’s  ranks,  and  all  was  confused  strife, 
clash,  groan,  cheer,  and  execration.  Evelyn’s  horse  fell  twice. 
Scarce  sensible  of  his  movement,  he  at  last  found  himself  hurried 
down  the  slope,  along  with  the  whole  of  the  left  wing.  Some 
Irish  pikemen  had  taken  them  in  flank,  and  produced  utter  dis¬ 
order. 

The  enemy,  horse  and  foot,  retired  to  their  position.  William, 
with  soul-stirring  words,  rallied  his  men  ;  reformed  them  ;  and 
prepared  to  make  a  second  charge.  At  this  moment  additional 
spuadrons  of  horse  joined  the  Irish,  from  the  direction  of  Old- 
bridge.  Portions  of  Dutch,  French,  and  English  infantry  also 
appeared  advancing,  at  some  distance,  along  the  river’s  side  to 
the  king.  While  the  loud  report  of  musketry  and  shouting, 
behind  them,  intimated  that,  at  the  important  ford,  the  contest 
between  the  centres  of  the  two  armies  had  been  renewed.  That 
part,  at  least,  of  the  English  force  had  recrossed,  now  seemed 
evident  in  the  approach  of  the  foot  to  William. 

Inspired  by  their  sight,  although  not  waiting  for  them,  William 
a  second  time  led  his  horse  up  the  eminence.  The  enemy  retired 
through  the  lane  into  the  village,  and  disappeared.  Now,  con¬ 
fident  of  success,  he  galloped  through  it,  after  them.  But  the 
manoeuvre  proved  only  a  feint  to  seduce  him  into  more  peril 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


473 


Their  horse  charged  furiously  upon  him  ;  their  foot  appeared  at 
favorable  points,  over  its  hedges,  and  from  some  cabins  at  either 
side.  Again  William  was  repulsed.  Leaving  the  Enniskilleners, 
whom  he  had  at  first  headed,  to  meet  the  shock,  he  wheeled 
round  to  bring  up  the  Dutch.  But  the  Enniskilleners  wheeled 
after  him.  While,  for  the  time,  he  vainly  cried,  “  What,  my 
friends !  what,  Irish,  is  not  your  king  at  your  head,  and  will  you 
do  nothing  for  him  ?”  All  again  became  confusion. 

While  the  main  force  fell  back,  Evelyn  was  assailed  by  half  a 
dozen  Irish  horse,  and  cut  off  from  his  comrades.  Not  cool 
enough  to  calculate  his  situation,  he  struck  madly,  at  every  side, 
prodigal  of  life. 

“  No  quarter,  if  he  strike  another  blow !”  cried  a  shrill  voice, 
advancing.  But  this  only  made  him  furious  ;  and  he  continued 
to  defend  himself  well,  until  the  same  voice  resumed — 

“  To  the  traitor’s  heart,  then !”  and  as  one  of  the  wild-looking 
men  half-stunned  him  with  a  baffled  cut,  the  features  of  Eva 
M’Donnell  swam  before  his  eyes,  and,  in  the  foreign  costume  he 
knew  so  well,  Evelyn  deemed  that  her  sword  was  raised  to  shed 
his  blood. 

His  brain  reeled,  and  he  fell  from  his  horse.  There  was  the 
gallop  of  other  horsemen  towards  him,  and  another  face,  of 
power  to  call  up  even  more  wondrous  and  confounding  associ¬ 
ations,  seemed  to  flit,  as  in  a  dream,  past  him.  Ere  many 
seconds  had  elapsed,  an  Irish  officer  had  dashed  up,  flung  him¬ 
self  from  his  horse,  ran  to  Evelyn,  and  struck  aside  the  blade 
that  was  now  descending — 

“  Quarter,  quarter  I”  cried  the  well-known  tones  of  Sarsfield. 
“  This  is  my  prisoner.  Ha !  Mr.  Evelyn  ? — then  we  have  met 
again.” 

Evelyn  could  not  answer  him. 

“  To  horse,  sir,”  Sarsfield  continued  ;  “  and  come  out  of  fur 
ther  danger  with  me.” 

Assisting  him  to  mount  as  he  spoke,  he  took  Evelyn’s  bridle, 
and  led  him,  through  the  village,  and  the  thick  of  the  Irish 
troops  posted  in  it,  to  the  last  eminence  between  them  and 
Dunore  Hill.  Here  Sarsfield  paused,  and  turning  his  face  to  the 
battle,  said — 

“  Let  us  note  the  end  of  the  affair,  in  this  point,  ere  I  return 
with  the  bad  tidings,  to  collect  which  I  have  alone  been  per¬ 
mitted  to  place  my  foot  on  the  field,  this  day.” 

Evelyn,  now  restored  fully  to  his  senses,  found  himself  in  a 


m 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


situation  that  afforded  almost  an  entire  view  of  the  battle  from 
Oldbridge  to  the  village  of  Sheephouse.  Bodies  of  foot  still 
pressed  over  the  ford,  and  were  still  charged  by  the  Irish  pike- 
men  and  horse  left  at  that  point.  William  had  been  joined  by 
the  detachment  of  foot,  and  stood  nearly  under  Evelyn,  prepared 
for  a  renewed  attack  on  the  enemy  that  had  twice  foiled  him. 
Other  scattered  portions  of  infantry  escaped,  as  they  landed, 
towards  their  king  ;  often  interrupted  by  flying  troops  of  Irish 
horse.  The  whole  Irish  force  at  Oldbridge  attacked  the  last 
and  main  body  of  their  enemies.  At  the  same  moment,  William 
charged  up  to  Sheephouse,  so  that,  over  a  great  expanse  of 
ground,  all  was  now  struggle,  uproar,  and  dreadful  interest. 

“  That’s  Hamiltou  still  at  their  head,  yonder,”  said  Sarsfield, 
looking  towards  the  ford.  “  Great  as  is  the  distance,  I  know 
him  in  his  saddle  among  thousands.  They  meet !”  he  exclaimed, 
grasping  his  sword,  “  and  we  are  again  successful.  But  see, 
Hamilton  has  ventured  too  far  ;  he  is  cut  off,  and  taken  prisoner.” 

Even  while  he  spoke,  William  once  more  charged  up  the 
ascent,  to  Sheephouse,  and  once  more  was  driven  through  the 
lane,  down  towards  the  river.  Sarsfield  cheered. 

“  Sheldon,  well  done  !  well  done  !”  he  cried. 

But,  at  this  very  moment,  the  tide  of  battle  turned.  The  Irish 
horse,  rushing  precipitously  onward,  lost  sight  of,  and  left  behind 
them,  two  English  regiments  of  dragoons,  commanded  by  Sir 
Albert  Cunningham  and  Captain  Levison,  who,  taking  advantage 
of  their  absence,  flung  themselves  from  their  saddles,  jumped 
behind  the  now  unoccupied  hedges  of  the  lane,  there  waited  the 
return  of  the  hitherto  triumphant  enemy  ;  fired  on  them,  with 
deadly  effect,  as  they  galloped  up  to  the  village,  and  threw  them 
into  disorder.  Then,  cheering  on  a  near  troop,  headed  by  the 
afterwards  celebrated  Ginkle,  the  Irish  were  taken  in  rear, 
pressed  up  the  lane,  and  so  kept  employed  until  the  whole  of 
William’s  right  wing,  including  its  late  re-enforcements  from 
Oldbridge,  had  time  to  rally,  and  a  fourth  time  charge  them  at 
a  disadvantage. 

“  By  heaven  and  St.  Patrick !”  exclaimed  Sarsfield,  as  he 
witnessed  these  accidents,  “  we  are  beaten  at  every  point  if 
William  wins  the  village  before  our  last  little  reserve  at  Dunore 
gets  down  to  Sheldon — And  does  it  yet  move  ?”  turning  his 
eyes  to  the  hill  over  him.  “  No  !  not  a  yard  1  Ride  with  me, 
Mr.  Evelyn!  Oh,  there  is  no  time,  now,  to  send  him  help!. 
But  hold — our  weakened  centre,  at  the  ford,  appears  retiring  on 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  475 

Sheephouse  in  a  body — that  may  do  !  they  may  be  up,  in  season, 
to  take  William  in  flank  !  Ride,  sir,  ride !” 

They  wheeled  up  Dunore  Hill,  and  found  James  standing  in 
a  churchyard,  on  its  summit,  surrounded  by  some  officers,  and  a 
considerable  body  of  horse.  His  distended  eyes  were  rolling 
over  the  plains  and  slopes  below — he  gaped — he  gasped — and 
perspiration  teemed  from  his  forehead,  as,  with  arms  crossed  over 
his  breast,  he  desperately  griped,  in  both  hands,  a  naked  but  idle 
sword.  Let  justice  still  be  done  to  one  of  the  most  unfortunate 
of  mankind.  Let  not  a  shade  of  cowardice  be  attributed  to 
him  whose  gallantry,  until  this  day,  friends  and  foes,  and  the 
brave  and  distinguished  of  different  nations,  concurred  in  assert¬ 
ing,  and  whose  unparalleled  afflictions,  whose  outraged  and  torn 
heart,  may  well  supply  an  apology  for  the  mingled  extravagance 
and  weakness  that,  since  the  usurpation  of  a  daughter,  charac¬ 
terized  his  conduct,  and  that  now,  on  Dunore  Hill,  made  him 
shudder  at  the  unnatural  chance  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  that 
daughter’s  husband.  The  betrayed  friend  and  deserted  father 
had  broken  down  ;  but  James  could  not  have  been  a  coward. 

“  My  liege,  my  liege  1”  cried  Sarsfield,  the  moment  he  came 
up,  “  now,  at  the  least,  send  down  my  Lucan  men  and  their 
comrades,  or  all  is  lost !” 

“How — where — whither?”  asked  James,  his  presence  of  mind 
quite  gone.  “  What  news  from  Lauzan,  and  the  left  wing  at 
Slane  ?  That  was  your  mission,  General  Sarsfield — speed 

it !” 

“  Lauzan  has  withdrawn  the  whole  left  towards  Duleek, 
fearing  young  Schomberg’s  movement  to  cut  him  off.  But  these 
horse,  my  liege — these  horse  !  Shall  I  lead  them  down  to 
Sheldon  ?” 

“  Has  the  enemy  much  force  at  Oldbridge  ?  I  deemed  their 
main  body  had  marched  on  Slane — ” 

“  You  did,  my  liege,  but  it  was  in  error.  At  Oldbridge 
their  strength  remained  ;  and  while  their  left  now  tugs  with  our 
handful  at  Sheephouse,  at  Oldbridge  they  have  crossed — ” 

“Re-enforce  our  centre  from  our  right !”  cried  James,  wildly. 

“Your  majesty  should  recollect  that  there  is  no  right.  That 
after  weakening  the  centre  by  detachments  to  the  left,  when 
your  majesty  deemed  William’s  main  force  had  moved  on  Slane, 
Tyrconnel  brought  up  his  right  to  Oldbridge.  But  it  matters 
not — one  good  charge,  again  successful,  at  Sheephouse,  where, 
as  your  majesty  may  see,  our  whole  present  strength  has  concern 


476 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


trated.  One  good  charge,  I  say — let  Sheldon  be  well  seconded, 
and — ” 

“Lauzan  !  Lauzan  !  where  is  Lauzan  ?”  interrupted  James, 
heedless  of  what  was  said,  and  showing,  in  every  look  and  word, 
the  utter  abandonment  of  an  effort  he  had  never  manfully 
depended  on,  although  obstinately  and  boyishly  he  had  stood 
alone  as  its  prompter.  “  Where  is  our  dear  Lauzan,  I  ask,  whose 
advice,  alone,  can  now  help  us  to  a  conclusion?  You  had  our 
orders,  sir,  to  send  him  a  summons  hither — ” 

“  And  obeyed  the  orders,  my  liege,”  said  Sarsfield,  in  cool  in¬ 
dignation.  “  He  is  here  as  a  witness.” 

Lauzan  galloped,  indeed,  at  the  instant,  into  the  churchyard. 
James  rushed  towards  him — would  almost  have  embraced  him. 

“  Let  your  majesty  guard  your  sacred  person  !”  exclaimed  the 
French  commander-in-chief.  “Let  your  majesty  ride  with  me 
to  join  our  left  on  the  Duleek  road.  For  Dublin,  sire !  For 
France !” 

“  Stir  not,  my  liege  1”  cried  Sarsfield,  “  the  day  still  wavers — 
look !  William  is  still  kept  in  check  at  Sheephouse  ;  the  rem¬ 
nant  of  our  centre  has  just  joined  Sheldon,  there — order  me  to 
head  my  Lucan  horse  and  join  him,  too — order  Count  Lauzan 
to  march  back  his  left — ” 

“  Haste,  sire,  haste  !”  interrupted  Lauzan,  “  or  the  enemy  cuts 
you  off  from  Dubliu.  Your  best  friends  are  down  or  scattered — 
Sir  Neale  O’Neal  at  Slane  ;  my  lords  of  Dungan  and  Carling- 
ford.  the  Marquis  of  Hoquincourt,  Arundel,  Ashford,  Fitzgerald, 
most  of  the  exempts,  and  many  other  officers,  in  the  centre. 
Of  Parker’s  two  squadrons  of  horse,  but  thirty  men  have  come 
off.  Haste,  sire — for  safety — for  life  1” 

“Is,  all  then  lost?”  asked  James,  faintly.  “Sarsfield” — he 
clasped  his  hand,  and  met  his  eyes — “  good  friend,  farewell  1” 
and  he  was  turning  off  with  Lauzan. 

“  God’s  mercy,  sire  !  do  you  leave  us,  without  a  cause  ?  Will 
your  majesty,  whose  courage  the  world  has  seen  and  praised, 
show  your  back  to  the  battle  while  it  yet  roars  beneath  your 
feet  ?  All  is  not  lost,  my  liege — believe  not  the  interested 
report  of  a  dainty  Frenchman.  Look  around  you — over  the 
field — on  this  hill — and  see  your  sacred  person  still  protected. 
Command  me  down,  I  say!  Or,  mount,  my  gracious  prince, 
mount  your  own  good  horse,  and  let  me  but  spur  at  your  side. 
Head  us,  sire — head  your  own  devoted  people  on  a  last  charge — 
strike  with  your  own  sword  one  blow — for  your  triple  crown,  nay 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


477 


liege — for  your  exiled  queen — for  your  infant  son — cry  courage ! 
for  God,  for  St.  George,  and  St.  Patrick ! — and  that  will  be  the 
blow  to  end  it 1” 

“  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost,”  whispered  Lauzan. 
James,  his  nerves  completely  shattered,  moved  like  an  automaton 
from  the  churchyard. 

“  Gone  !”  resumed  Sarsfield,  standing  overwhelmed  with  shame 
and  ra^e.  “  Accursed  be  the  tongue  that  prompts  him !  Ac¬ 
cursed  the  rashness  that  brought  us  to  this,  and  now  too  soon 
abandons  us?  Accursed  be  this  day  for  us  and  for  Ireland! 
And  see,  already  comes  the  teeming  of  the  curse — Sheldon, 
unsupported,  at  last  gives  way,  and  wheels  towards  us — our 
shattered  centre  also  retreat,  round  the  rise,  towards  the  Duleek 
pass — the  cheers  of  our  enemies  shake  the  hills  and  skies.  The 
battle  is  lost  !”  he  continued,  grinding,  rather  than  stamping, 
his  iron  heel  into  the  ground.  “  Come,  Mr.  Evelyn,  I  have  now 
but  one  duty  to  perform  ;  my  horse  must  follow  to  guard  this 
poor  king” — large  bodies  of  Irish  troops  here  passed  towards 
the  Duleek  road  in  good  order — “  Tyrconnel,  Sheldon,  and  the 
rest,  will  manage  a  retreat  for  the  centre.” 

An  officer  of  dragoons,  covered  with  soil  and  blood,  dashed 
by  the  churchyard. 

“  Where  is  the  king  ?”  he  asked  of  Sarsfield. 

“  Gone,  Sheldon,  gone !”  answered  his  brother  officer. 

“  Cead  mille  curses !”  cried  the  brave  man,  fiercely  spurring 

off. 

Crowds  of  soldiers,  horse  and  foot,  stopped  to  look  over  the 
inclosure  in  front,  obviously  astonished,  and  muttering  their 
remarks  to  each  other.  One,  amid  a  group  of  very  wild-look¬ 
ing  fellows,  said,  in  the  simpering  tones  of  the  Whisperer  : 

“  Mostha,  ay  ;  Shamus-a - ,”  using  a  vulgar,  cruel,  and 

unmerited  Irish  expletive,  recollected  to  this  day,  but  rather 
uusuited  to  our  pages.  “  Shamus-a - is  gone,  sure  enough.” 

“Come,  Mr.  Evelyn,”  resumed  Sarsfield;  “my  prisoner,  al¬ 
though  you  have  witnessed  our  shame.” 

“  Your  shame  I  have  not  witnessed,  General  Sarsfield,” 
said  Evelyu,  wishing  to  soothe  the  agonies  of  a  brave  man’s 
spirit.  “  It  was  a  well-fought  day.” 

“  Sir,”  cried  Sarsfield,  grasping  his  hands,  and  echoing  a  senti¬ 
ment  expressed  by  some  of  bis  brother  officers,  “  change  gen¬ 
erals  with  us,  and  we’ll  fight  it  over  again.” 


478 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XXXY1 

With  a  stumbling  step,  amid  graves  and  headstones,  James 
turned  with  Lauzan  from  the  churchyard  of  Dunore.  Gaining 
his  horse,  he  rode  in  speed  and  profound  silence  towards  the  left 
wing  of  his  army,  already,  as  has  been  said,  in  advance  on  Dub¬ 
lin,  while  the  voice  of  the  undecided  battle  yet  sent  its  mingled 
roar  after  him.  His  road  was  a  wild  one,  lying  through  a  waste 
and  flat  country.  The  evening  began,  prematurely,  to  fall,  for 
gathering  clouds  and  tempest  obscured  the  summer  light.  Thus, 
after  about  an  hour’s  journey,  every  thing,  on  his  way,  around 
him  and  above  him,  looked  bleak  and  desolate  as  his  fortunes. 

At  what  was  then  called  the  Pass  of  Duleek,  Sarsfield,  ac¬ 
companied  by  his  prisoner,  joined  the  fallen  king.  It  became 
there  arranged  that  Lauzan  should  stay  behind  to  assist  the 
other  general  officers  in  arranging  the  retreat  of  the  whole  army, 
while  James  proceeded  southward  to  Dublin,  escorted  by  Sars- 
field’s  horse  alone. 

The  melancholy  journey  continued  in  unbroken  silence.  At 
about  eight  o’clock,  James  entered,  for  the  last  time,  his  Irish 
metropolis.  As  he  and  his  escort  passed  some  outposts  of  mili¬ 
tia,  and,  afterwards,  the  whispering  groups  of  citizens  in  the 
streets,  no  question  was  asked  of  the  couriers  from  the  battle. 
Men  only  looked  on  his  brow,  and  then  turned  to  each  other  to 
discuss  the  tidings  they  read  but  too  plainly  there. 

Passing  into  the  castle-yard,  some  hundreds  ot  Scottish  noble¬ 
men  and  gentlemen,  the  last  unsubdued  remnant  of  those  gallant 
soldiers,  who,  under  the  gallant  Dundee,  had  just  escaped  from 
the  failure  of  James’s  cause  in  the  Highlands,  appeared  drawn 
up,  awaiting  his  arrival,  to  make  a  tender  of  their  services,  as  a 
guard  for  his  person,  willing  to  follow  his  fortunes  over  the 
world. 

“  Alas!  brave  men,”  answered  James,  “  I  can  now  give  you 
no  appointments  suited  to  your  rank.  I  am  poor,  as  well  as 
powerless.” 

The  officers  said,  that  not  wishing  to  be  a  burden  on  their 
royal  master,  and  only  anxious  to  share  whatever  fortune  was 
his,  they  begged  permission  to  form  themselves  into  a  regiment 
of  private  soldiers  for  his  service.  He  bowed,  in  agitated  silence, 
and  entered  the  castle. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


479 


“Let  the  council  be  sent  for,”  he  muttered  to  Sarslield,  ag 
they  ascended  the  stairs.  The  general  obeyed  his  orders. 

“  If  it  be  proper  or  possible,”  whispered  Evelyn  to  his  com¬ 
panion,  “  I  should  request  leave  to  follow  you  :  you  know  my 
motive.” 

Sarsfield  hesitated  ;  but  James,  himself,  just  then  stopped  on 
the  stairs,  and  desired  that  the  Enniskillen  officer  might  attend 
him.  Accordingly,  Sarsfield  and  Evelyn  followed  in  his  steps. 

“  Wilson  1”  cried  James,  the  moment  he  gained  the  great  hall, 
speaking  to  a  gentleman  who  bowed  to  him — “from  France?” 

“  With  letters  from  the  queen,  my  liege.” 

Trembling  in  every  joint,  the  deposed  monarch  tore  open  the 
packet. 

“My  God!”  he  cried,  after  reading  it,  “how  doth  fortune 
sport  with  me  !  Here  be  tidings  that  a  death-blow  is  struck  in 
our  favor  on  the  Continent,  Sarsfield  ;  that  Waldeck  has  been 
totally  routed  by  Louis  at  Fleurus  !  Would  to  Heaven,  Sars¬ 
field,  I  had  listened  to — but  that  is  past.  Welcome,  lords  and 
gentlemen,”  addressing  his  two  chancellors,  Secretary  Neagle, 
the  Duke  of  Powis,  the  Marquis  of  Abbeville,  the  Chief  Baron, 
and  others  of  his  council,  who  then  entered.  “We  have  com¬ 
mands  for  your  ear — and  welcome,  too,  my  lady  of  Tyrconnel,” 
who  also  appeared  through  the  archway  at  the  remote  end  of 
the  hall,  accompanied  by  her  maidens  of  honor.  “  Your  lord  is 
well,  fair  lady,  and  will  greet  you  to-morrow.” 

“For  that,  and  for  your  majesty’s  safety,  grace  to  God,” 
replied  his  hostess.  “  Choose  you  to  sup,  my  liege  ?” 

“•Madam,”  answered  James,  “did  you  know  the  breakfast  I 
have  had,  you  would  not  deem  I  held  much  stomach  for  supper.” 
The  lady  and  her  attendants  drew  back.  Evelyn’s  eye  became 
fixed  on  them. 

“We  have  lost  the  day,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,”  he  contin¬ 
ued,  “  and  I  prepare  to  take  my  leave  of  you.  God  has  gone 
over  from  us  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  We  stand  before  you  a 
deposed  and  defeated  king  ;  whose  worst  crime — as  the  God 
who  abandons  him  shall  judge  him  ! — whose  worst  crime  was  an 
effort  to  grant  civil  and  religious  freedom  to  all  sects  of  his  sub¬ 
jects.  On  that  point  I  wish  first  to  address  you.  Note  it  well. 
Note  the  awful  declaration  in  which  it  is  made.  And  let  one  oi 
our  enemies,  now  present,  note  both,  and  remember  them. 

“  With  a  desire  and  a  plan  to  overturn  the  established  reli¬ 
gion  of  these  realms  we  have  been  charged.  It  is  false.  I  here 


480 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


make  no  further  assertion,  but  the  rather  show  ye  proof.  Look 
at  these  papers.  One  is  our  testament  ;  the  other  an  advice  to 
our  son,  penned  in  the  spirit  of  a  similar  advice  of  our  martyred 
father,  to  our  brother  Charles  ;  and  both  prepared  to  meet  the 
chance  of  the  battle  that  has  this  day  gone  against  us.  As  the 
solemn  and  true  words  of  a  man  going  to  meet  his  last  account, 
it  must  be  regarded  by  you  and  by  posterity.  For,  die  when  I 
may,  it  shall  pass  to  my  son  unaltered  from  its  present  shape 
and  tenor.”  (As  James  now  read  it,  the  document  stands,  in¬ 
deed,  at  the  present  day,  well  authenticated  under  the  gracious 
auspices  of  the  reigning  sovereign.)  “Our  leading  injunction  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales  is,  as  you  shall  hear,”  resumed  James,  read¬ 
ing— 

“  ‘  Endeavor  to  settle  liberty  of  conscience  by  a  law.’  ‘  Be 
not  persuaded  to  depart  from  that.  Our  blessed  Saviour 
whipped  people  out  of  the  temple  ;  but  I  never  heard  He  com¬ 
manded  any  should  be  forced  into  it.’  ‘  ’Tis  by  gentleness  and 
instruction,  and  good  example,  people  are  to  be  gained,  and  not 
by  terror.’ 

“  So  much,”  continued  James,  speaking,  “  for  our  true  senti¬ 
ments  on  religious  toleration.  Now  hearken  to  some  particular 
proofs  of  our  wish — so  contrary  to  the  foul  charge  pretended 
against  us — to  maintain,  in  place  and  ascendency,  even  while  we 
allowed  equal  privileges  to  Catholics,  the  established  faith  of  our 
realms.  In  recommending  our  son  to  have  five  commissioners  of 
the  treasury,  we  desire  him  to  choose  three  Church  of  England 
men,  one  Catholic,  and  one  Dissenter.  In  recommending  two 
secretaries  of  state,  we  mention  one  Protestant,  one  Catholic. 
We  advise  him  to  have  his  war  secretary  Catholic,  and  the 
secretary  of  his  navy — the  great,  though  now  shamed  bulwark 
of  Britain — Protestant. 

“  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  enough.  When  the  fury  of  those 
whose  hands  are  against  me  shall  have  passed  away,  men  wik 
rescue  me,  even  by  this  evidence,  from  the  charge  of  having 
plotted  to  overturn  the  Protestant  religion.  When  I  am  ashes, 
my  cruel  enemies  will  be  confounded. 

“  That,  only  in  the  view  of  granting  to  all  my  subjects  free¬ 
dom  of  conscience,  my  kingly  privilege  was  asserted,  I  deny  not 
—I  wish  not  to  deny.  And  what  advice  vainly  prompted  me  to 
do  so  ?  It  is  said  I  have  been  misguided  by  bad  advisers. 
Some,  perchance,  there  be,  who  attempted  unsafe  counsel*  vfith 
me  :  but  who,  I  ask,  was,  in  this  matter,  my  counsellor  ?  The 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


481 


royal  martyr,  our  murdered  father.  From  his  written  advice  to 
our  brother  Charles,  I  became  thus  instructed. 

“  *  Your  prerogative  is  best  showed  and  exercised  in  remit¬ 
ting,  rather  than  exacting,  the  rigor  of  the  laws,  there  being 
uotliing  worse  than  legal  tyranny.7 

“  But,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  while  I  believed  this  maxim 
to  be  true,  and  lawfully  strove  to  act  upon  it,  I  have  been 
taught  the  truth  of  another,  also  contained  in  that  advice  of  our 
royal  father  : 

‘  1 1  have  observed/  says  the  martyr  of  bigotry,  ‘  that  the 
Devil  of  Rebellion  doth  commonly  turn  himself  into  the  Angel  of 
Reformation  ;  and  the  old  serpent  can  pretend  new  lights. 
When  some  men’s  consciences  accuse  them  for  sedition  and  fac¬ 
tion,  they  must  stop  its  mouth  with  the  name  and  noise  of  reli¬ 
gion  ;  when  piety  pleads  for  peace,  they  cry  out  zeal.7 

“  And  so,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  turn  we  to  present  mat¬ 
ters,77  James  continued.  “  The  pass  of  the  Boyne  is  forced  by 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  Dublin  must  immediately  be  evacu¬ 
ated.  I  am  for  France.  Do  not  fire  the  city,  nor  in  any  way 
injure  it.  Hold  it  for  the  conquerer,  and  try  to  get  his  mercy 
for  yourselves.  Perchance  he  will  prove  kinder  to  you  than  ever 
he  did  to  his  wife’s  father.  Farewell,  my  faithful  servants. 
Faithful  ye  have  been,  yet  now  I  part  ye  without  the  power  of 
offering  any  recompense  save  my  words — and  tears,77  the  wretched 
king  added,  as  he  turned  aside,  and  those  near  him  could,  amid 
his  groans  and  sobs,  hear  him  name  his  daughters. 

“  What  is  to  be  done  ?  I  know  not  yet,77  he  went  on,  com¬ 
posedly,  after  a  pause,  “  whether  we  can  still  have  a  blow  for  it, 
or  yield  at  once — 77 

“Ay,  a  score  of  hard  blows  for  it,  my  liege,77  interrupted 
Sarsfield. 

“  I  hope  little  from  my  subjects  in  Ireland,  if  you  mean  that, 
Sarsfield.  Often  was  I  warned  against  them.  And  though 
they  have  not,  like  my  English  subjects,  wholly  forsaken  me,  yet 
am  I  assured  by  Lauzan  that  but  for  the  cowardice  of  our  Irish 
foot  at  Oldbridge,  we  need  not  this  day  have  fled  from  the 
field.77 

“  Believe  not  Lauzan,  my  liege  ;  he  lies  in  his  throat,77  cried 
Sarsfield  warmly.  James  turned  with — 

“  How,  sir  !  this  bold  language  to  our  face  ?”  when  he  en¬ 
countered  a  sharper  rebuke  from  another  quarter. 

A  hasty  motion  took  place  among  the  group  of  maidens  who 

21 


432 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


surrounded  Lady  Tyrconnel  at  the  far  archway.  While  Evelyn 
starred  as  if  it  had  been  her  spectre,  Eva  M’Donnell  quickly 
walked  from  amongst  them  towards  where  the  king  stood,  say¬ 
ing  passionately  as  she  came  up — 

“  If  flying  from  the  field  be  the  question,  my  liege,  who  gave 
the  lesson  V 1 

“  God’s  saints  !”  cried  James,  11  and  by  whom  are  we  asked 
this  insulting  question  ?” 

“  By  one,  sire,”  continued  Eva,  “  who  is  a  victim — and  a  will¬ 
ing  one — to  your  cause  and  you.  Who  staked  all  upon  it — and 
lost  all.  Whose  affections  have  been  blighted  ;  whose  father  and 
brother  have  been  sacrificed  ;  and  who  stands  alone  and  friend¬ 
less,  to-night,  only  because  she  and  they  loved  their  king  too  well. 
By  an  Irishwoman,  my  liege,  who  has  in  her  veins  the  kindred 
blood  already  lavished  to  do  you  service — the  blood  that  still 
throbs  to  flow,  maiden  as  she  is,  in  your  righteous  cause.  But 
that,  while  it  is  loyal  to  you,  is  loyal  to  her  country,  also  ;  and 
now  rises,  honestly  and  indignantly  to  denounce  the  ingratitude, 
even  of  a  king,  which  dares  prompt  him  to  slander  the  very 
bravery  he  feared  to  see  out  in  his  own  cause.  Do  your  pleasure 
with  me,  sire,  for  my  boldness.”  She  turned  to  a  near  seat,  and 
averting  her  face,  covered  it  with  her  hands. 

11  Now,  indeed,  farewell,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,”  said  James  ; 
“  the  example  of  rude  insult  which  General  Sarsfield  has  set, 
seems  to  be  too  soon  followed,  and  this  roof  no  longer  protects 
us.  Earewell  1  some  more  dutiful  escort  awaits  us  abroad,  per¬ 
chance.  My  daughters  1”  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands,  as 
he  rushed  through  the  door,  “  this,  too,  ye  have  doomed  me  to 
hear.” 

“  Gracious  prince  !”  cried  Sarsfield,  starting  across,  dropping 
on  his  knee,  and  touching  his  skirt,  while  Eva  also  knelt  at  the 
general’s  side. 

“  My  king  and  master,  pardon  !  and  part  not  in  anger  from 
your  devoted  and  loving  servant.” 

“  Pardon,  pardon,  sire,”  echoed  Eva  ;  “I  am  wild  with  many 
griefs,  and  knew  not  what  I  said.” 

“  Sarsfield,”  answered  James,  extending  one  hand  to  him,  and 
the  other  to  poor  Eva,  you  are  forgiven  from  my  heart.  Nay, 
nay,”  as  the  general  kissed  his  hand,  “  this  is  too  much — why, 
man,  I  feel  your  tears  on  my  hand.  What  I  a  soldier,  and 
weep  ?”  wretchedly  smiling  through  his  own  bitter  tears — “  rise. 
Farewell,  and  bless  you.  And  you,  poor  young  maiden.”  He 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


483 


raised  her,  and  kissed  her  upturned  forehead.  “  Pardon  us 
rather,  the  sorrow  we  have  brought  on  you  and  yours,  and  fare 
you  well,  too — farewell  to  all.  Ah  !  my  Lady  Tyrconnel,”  as  a 
loud  lament  arose  down  the  hall,  “  will  you  not  advance  to  make 
us  an  adieu  ?  So,  fare  you  well — commend  me  to  your  lord. 
And  now,  once  more,  Sarsfield — ” 

“  My  gracious  liege,  I  go  with  you  to  Waterford.” 

“  No,  Sarsfield,  no.  Other  officers  can  be  better  spared  ; 
remain  with  the  army.  Agree  with  Lauzan  as  you  can,  and  do 
the  best  between  you.  On  your  life,  no  stirring  hence  !”  he 
continued,  as  they  both  passed  through  the  door. 

In  the  yard,  James  found,  added  to  the  escort  in  waiting  on 
him,  a  newly-come  regiment.  He  inquired  who  they  were,  and 
was  told  he  saw,  now  hastily  clad  in  the  uniform  of  private  sol¬ 
diers,  the  Scottish  noblemen  and  gentlemen  he  had  met  on  his 
arrival.  He  started,  and  seemed  overwhelmed.  He  walked  up 
to  them,  and,  one  by  one,  asked  their  names,  and  wrote  them  in 
his  tablets.  He  thanked  them,  one  by  one,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  for  the  honor  they  had  done  him.  Then,  removing  to 
their  front,  he  bowed,  with  his  hat  off ;  walked  towards  his 
horse  ;  stopped,  returned,  bowed  again,  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  body  knelt,  bent  their  heads  and  eyes  steadfastly  on  the 
ground  ;  arose,  and  gave  him  the  usual  honors. 

James  mounted  his  horse.  His  escort,  headed  by  many  of 
his  chief  officers,  got  into  motion.  Sarsfield  a  second  time  bent 
his  knee,  and  took  his  master’s  hand.  All  present  remained  un¬ 
covered,  in  the  big  drops  of  rain  that  announced  a  coming 
storm.  “  My  daughters,  Sarsfield  !”  whispered  this  real  Lear, 
as  he  pressed  his  general’s  hand,  and  spurred  upon  his  night 
iourney  towards  Waterford.  And  well,  indeed,  might  he  have 
applied  to  himself  the  well-known  lines — 

“  Spit,  fire  !  spout,  rain ! 

Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters  1 
I  tax  not  you,  ye  elements,  with  unkindness — 

I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  called  you  children — 

You  owe  me  subscription  ;  why  then,  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure !” 

As  James  retired  from  the  hall,  Eva  stood  near  Evelyn.  She 
could  not  but  have  recognized  him,  yet  she  showed  no  token  that 
she  had  done  so.  Amid  the  confusion  and  distress  that  reigned 
around,  he  easily  approached  her. 


484 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


u  Eva  !  adored  Eva  !  do  you  live  ?  are  you  safe  ?  do  you 
stand  by  my  side  ?  and  will  you  not  turn  to  me  to  give  happi¬ 
ness,  and  accept  protection  ?”  he  said,  passionately. 

She  walked  away,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  coldness,  lofti¬ 
ness,  and  deepest  sorrow  in  her  face  and  manner  ;  but  spoke  not 
a  word. 

“  Unjust,  ungenerous  Eva  !”  he  continued,  following  her  step 
— “  fickle,  cruel,  and  inexplicable  Eva  !  why  am  I  treated  thus  ? 
Oh,  my  heart  bursts  with  questions,  and  aches  and  breaks  for 
your  confidence  !  Have  I  done  aught  to  warrant  its  withdraw¬ 
ing  from  me  ?  only  answer  that  !” 

She  bent  on  him  an  eye  of  dignified  and  deep  reproach,  and 
walked  hastily  towards  her  companions.  Still  he  followed.  But 
ere  he  could  again  come  up  with  her,  they  advancing  as  she 
moved,  gathered  round  her  ;  and  all  were  about  to  leave  the  hall. 

"  I  entreat — I  demand  the  explanation  !”  Evelyn  continued, 
speaking  vehemently,  and  still  walking  on,  when  an  officer  of  the 
household  stopped  him.  At  the  same  moment,  Sarsfield  re-en¬ 
tered,  his  step  heavy,  and  his  face  clouded  with  sorrow,  took  his 
arm,  and  led  him  back  towards  the  public  entrance  to  the  hall. 

“  Pardon  me,  sir,”  cried  Evelyn — “  pardon  the  introduction  of 
my  private  concerns  at  such  a  moment  ;  but  here  have  I  met 
again  my  affianced — my  wedded  lady — she  who  addressed  the 
king.  I  appeal  to  you  to  procure  me  freedom  and  opportunity 
to  approach  and  discourse  with  her.” 

“  It  cannot  now  be,”  answered  Sarsfield.  “  The  departure  of 
Lady  Tyrconnel  for  the  south  must  first  be  thought  of,  and  ad¬ 
mits  not  the  interruption  of  a  moment.  But  as  your  lady  will 
accompany  her,  ye  shall  meet,  some  other  day,  and  soon  I 
charge  myself  with  remembering  it.  For  the  present,  Mr.  Eve¬ 
lyn,  bustle,  bustle.  We  all  leave  Dublin  to-night.  And  though 
James  be  gone,  and  William  over  the  Boyne,  there  is  yet  one 
good  blow  left  us  on  the  Banks  of  the  Shannon.” 


CHAPTER  XXXV  II. 

Evelyn,  accompanying  the  scarcely  diminished  Irish  army  that 
fought  at  the  Boyne,  arrived  in  Limerick.  William  did  not  pur¬ 
sue  them,  nor  interrupt  their  motions.  The  news  of  the  battle  of 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


485 


Fleuru  reached  him  on  the  field,  and  tamed  his  former  ardor 
into  prudence.  Soon  after,  worse  tidings  came  to  hand — namely, 
another  victory  of  the  French  admiral  off  Beachy-head,  over 
the  combined  fleets  of  Holland  and  England  ;  on  which  occasion, 
according  to  a  Dutch  writer,  “  France  had  all  the  glory,  Hol¬ 
land  all  the  loss,  and  England  all  the  shame.”  And  after  this, 
there  was  not  left  a  ship  to  protect  the  whole  coast  of  old  Eng¬ 
land  ;  while  the  triumphant  enemy  chased  Torrington  into  the 
very  mouth  of  the  Thames,  and  set  fire  to  an  English  village. 

William  well  knew  that  his  nominal  and  hardly-earned  victory 
of  the  Boyne  was  much  more  than  counterbalanced  by  these 
great  failures  elsewhere — by  the  last,  in  particular,  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  Great  Britain  ;  that  James,  and  the  partisans 
of  James,  were,  notwithstanding  their  retreat  southward,  now 
placed  on  higher  ground  than  they  had  ever  before  occupied. 
And  while  advice  also  arrived  of  the  consternation  of  his 
friends,  and  the  plottings  of  his  enemies,  in  England,  he  pru¬ 
dently  declined  an  immediate  renewal  of  the  contest  with  his 
Irish  foes,  against  whom,  after  the  effort  they  had  made,  and  in 
their  present  rallied  spirits,  he  could  not  be  very  certain  of  re¬ 
newed  success.  At  the  same  time  that  one  advantage  gained 
by  them  over  him,  would  most  probably  cost  him  the  crown  of 
his  three  kingdoms. 

Contenting  himself,  therefore,  with  almost  full  dominion  in 
Ulster,  and  as  much  as  he  could,  without  fighting,  secure  of  Lein¬ 
ster  and  Munster,  he  took  Dublin,  Carlow,  Kilkenny,  and 
Waterford,  with  their  dependencies  ;  advancing  very  slowly  and 
cautiously,  and  shunning  all  contact  with  the  Irish  army. 

“The  only  trial  he  has  ventured  with  us,”  said  John  Grace,  a 
representative  of  one  of  the  oldest  English  settlers  in  Ireland, 
and  aid-de-camp  to  Sarsfield,  as,  in  Evelyn’s  presence,  he  and 
his  commanding-officer  discussed  these  matters,  “  was  to  detach 
Douglas,  after  the  Boyne  affair,  to  Athlone,  garrisoned  by  our 
friends  lately  posted  in  the  north,  and  having  my  old  grand-dad 
Dick  for  a  governor.” 

“  And,  there,  he  got  no  unkind  welcome,  John,”  said  Sars¬ 
field. 

“  It  so  appeareth,”  replied  the  gallant  and  gay-hearted  aid-de- 
camp.  “  That  is  my  answer,”  quoth  grand-dad  Dick,  blazing  a 
pistol  at  the  summoner.  “  And  you  may  tell  your  master  I  will 
hold  out,  until  I  eat  my  old  boots.” 

“  And  well  did  he  keep  his  word.  Douglas,  at  the  head  of 


m 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


his  reduced  ten  thousand,  has  been  gallantly  repulsed,  and  forced 
to  raise  the  siege,”  resumed  Sarsfield  ;  “  so  there  is  little  comfort, 
still,  for  the  bad  tidings  from  France  and  England.” 

“  Heavens  !”  he  continued,  bitterly,  though  enthusiastically, 
“  had  James  but  considered  the  counsel  we  offered  him — did  he 
now  stand  by  our  side  on  the  banks  of  the  Shannon,  without 
having,  at  mad  odds,  risked  a  battle — without  the  recollection 
of  a  repulse  to  thwart  him  or  console  William — what  a  blow,  in 
the  very  thick  of  some  of  the  opportunities  we  foretold,  might 
be  made  for  our  country  !” 

He  took  Evelyn  aside. 

“  Mr.  Evelyn,  I  come,  this  morning,  at  last  to  bring  you  an 
answer,  but  such  a  one  as  I  grieve  to  impart.  After  much 
mystery  and  reserve  among  the  noble  maidens  attending  here 
upon  her  Grace  of  Tyrconnel,  I  am  credibly  informed  your 
lady  left  Dublin,  for  some  part  wide  of  Limerick,  at  the  very 
moment  we  evacuated  the  former  city.” 

No  further  explanation  could  Evelyn  obtain.  He  assured 
himself  that  so  much  was  correct,  but  none  knew  Eva’s  desti¬ 
nation.  That  he  remained  thrice  wretched  must  be  believed. 
But  it  would  be  impossible,  as  well  as  tedious,  to  attempt  a  con¬ 
tinued  portraiture  of  his  feelings.  Let  us  rather  proceed  with 
events  that  gradually  brought  them  to  a  certainty. 

The  Irish  remained  in  Limerick,  governed  by  Monsieur  Bois> 
seleau,  and  principally  officered  by  the  prudent  English  Duke  of 
Berwick,  and  the  mad  Irish  Duke  of  Tyrconnel.  Sarsfield  had 
little  influence,  being  equally  disagreeable  to  his  French  and  to 
his  native  commander,  for  his  notice  of  the  hauteur  of  the  one, 
and  rash  and  weak  conduct  of  the  other.  Lauzan  had  with¬ 
drawn  himself  and  his  French  allies  to  Galway,  ostensibly  with  a 
view  of  garrisoning  that  town,  but  really  in  disgust  of  a  cause 
that,  since  his  landing,  he  regarded  as  hopeless,  and  sought  to 
embarrass  into  a  speedy  termination.  From  his  present  position, 
he  sent  over  to  Louis  the  most  dispiriting  statements,  joined  to 
earnest  requests  for  transports,  and  a  convoy  to  re-embark  his 
army.  Thus,  then,  Limerick  was  held  by  Irish  soldiers  alone  ; 
and,  in  the  confidence  of  native,  though  undisciplined,  strength, 
awaited  the  approach  of  William  at  the  head  of  his  veteran 
foreigners  of  different  countries. 

About  six  weeks  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  William  at 
last  deemed  he  might  lay  siege  to  Limerick  :  though  it  should 
not  be  forgotten  that,  ere  he  came  to  the  resolution,  he  had  re- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


487 


advanced  near  to  Dublin  on  his  way  to  England,  content  to  leave, 
unsubdued,  in  the  heart  of  their  own  country,  the  foes  he  had 
arrived  to  exterminate.  In  the  beginning  of  August  he  appeared 
before  the  town,  approaching  it  in  an  easterly  direction.  His 
besieging  army  was  twenty  thousand  strong.  Turning  round 
the  walls,  he  occupied,  with  his  encampment,  some  high  ground 
called  Singlands.  After  the  Irish,  still  engaged  on  their  unfin¬ 
ished  outworks,  had  retired  under  shelter  of  their  own  guns,  he 
planted  his  first  cannon  on  an  eminence,  in  advance  of  the  camp, 
and  within  shot  of  the  city  ;  a  position  previously  held  during 
the  siege  by  Cromwell’s  army.  Having  sent  in  a  summons,  and 
received,  signed  by  the  French  governor,  a  very  polite,  tech¬ 
nical,  but  point-blank  refusal,  he  commenced  his  first  cannonad¬ 
ing  against  the  citadel,  a  square  building,  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Irish  town,  nearest  to  his  camp,  defended,  in  front,  by  two 
well-mounted  bastions,  and  in  flank,  along  the  contiguous  wall, 
by  four  massive  towers.  The  citadel  is  yet  standing,  converted, 
with  some  alterations  and  additions,  into  a  purpose  very  different 
from  that  for  which  it  was  first  erected  ;  it  is  at  present  a 
hospital.  Its  bastions  are  in  tolerable  preservation,  and  the 
towers  along  its  adjacent  wall,  one  of  which  is  the  ruin  of  the 
Black  Battery,  show,  even  in  their  crumbled  fragments — the 
joint  effects  of  devastating  war,  and  equally  devastating  time — a 
formidable  appearance.  The  curious  observer  will  not  fail  to 
note,  upon  and  about  the  citadel,  the  marks  of  William’s  balls, 
during  this  first  cannonade.  They  are  easily  distinguishable  from 
the  slow  and  noiseless  breaches  made  by  the  lapse  of  almost  two 
centuries  ;  the  abruptly-splintered  coigne,  or  the  nearly  circular 
concavity,  still  showing  how  the  hard  stone  was  shattered  or 
reduced  to  powder  by  each  sharp  concussion  with  the  baffled 
shot. 

Thus  Evelyn  once  more  saw  himself  exposed  to  the  chances 
of  a  siege.  Yet  he  was  surprised  also  to  observe,  that  though 
the  cannonading  gave  partial  annoyance,  it  was  by  no  means  of 
the  formidable  kind  calculated  to  make  a  breach,  or  seriously  to 
awe  an  obstinate  city.  But  his  surprise  was  soon  to  meet  a 
solution. 

Limerick  was  then  composed  of  the  English  town  and  the 
Irish  town,  the  former  situated  in  an  island,  formed  by  two  em¬ 
bracing  arms  of  the  Shannon  ;  divided  from  the  Irish  town  by 
the  lesser  arm,  and  by  the  greater  from  the  county  of  Clare, 
formerly  Thomond. 


188 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Against  the  remote  side  of  the  Irish  town  William  had  sat 
down.  Thomond  Bridge,  the  only  communication  between  the 
English  town  and  the  county  of  Clare,  was  well  guarded  and 
fortified.  At  its  Limerick  end  was  a  gate,  with  portcullis.  At 
the  opposite  end,  the  footing  over  two  arches  drew  up,  and 
warders,  occupying  turrets  at  either  side,  constantly  had  care  of 
it.  Beyond,  entered  from  the  very  steep  approach  at  the 
country  side,  stood  King  John’s  castle  ;  two  massive  and  im¬ 
posing  round  towers,  connected  by  a  front  only  the  breadth  of 
a  wide  archway.  Which  castle,  with  the  perfectly  level  and 
well-built  old  bridge  of  Thomond,  was  the  sole  benefit  King 
John  or  his  insolent  visit  ever  conferred  on  Ireland.  At  thi; 
time,  double-gated,  walled-in,  and  fortified  by  bastions,  th 
castle  chiefly  served  to  increase  the  security  of  the  bridge.  I 
it  also  were  the  quarters  of  some  distinguished  officers,  and  c. 
Sarsfield  in  particular. 

Upon  an  evening,  the  second  or  third  after  the  commence¬ 
ment  of  the  smge,  he,  his  favorite  aid-de-camp,  and  Evelyn, 
stood  upon  one  of  its  bastions  that  afforded  a  view  of  the 
abrupt  descent  falling  down  to  the  drawbridge.  All  were 
silent.  Occupied  by  their  own  thoughts,  they  seemed  to  watch 
the  effect  of  the  long,  slanting  beams  of  the  sun,  streaming  over 
the  top  of  the  rugged  steep  from  the  open  country.  Suddenly, 
those  beams  flashed  fiercely  from  the  helm  and  breast-piece  of  a 
single  horseman,  who,  at  a  rapid,  yet  methodical  gallop,  gained 
the  edge  of  the  acclivity.  Sarsfield  started  ;  marvelling,  doubt¬ 
less,  at  the  rider’s  appearance  from  a  quarter  whence  no  friend 
was  expected,  and  whence  it  was  impossible  a  foe  could  thus 
singly  approach.  Evelyn  also  became  interested,  from  a  certain 
misgiving.  He  kept  his  glance  fixed.  As  the  horseman,  evi¬ 
dently  careless  of  the  peril  of  his  rough  and  steep  road,  swept 
towards  the  drawbridge,  and  he  and  his  dull-black  steed  swelling 
to  giant-size,  Evelyn  could  not  doubt  his  man — Galloping  Hogan. 

Advanced  to  within  a  civil  distance  of  the  guard  at  the 
county  of  Clare  end  of  the  drawbridge,  the  Rapp  are  e  drew  up, 
and,  as  they  challenged  him,  saluted  them  in  a  courteous,  soldier¬ 
like  manner.  They  parleyed  together.  Then  a  man  walked 
from  the  group  towards  an  entrance  to  King  John’s  castle  ; 
demanded  to  speak  with  General  Sarsfield,  and  was  answered, 
from  the  bastion,  by  Sarsfield  himself.  The  general  asked  from 
whom  Hogan  came.  The  soldier  did  not  know.  “  Let  him  ad¬ 
vance  to  where  you  stand  f  and  Hogan  accordingly  gave  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


489 


rein  to  his  willing  steed,  who,  in  a  few  stretches  of  his  colossal 
limbs,  brought  his  master  to  the  spot  required.  Here  the  Rap¬ 
paree  gave  another  salute  up  to  the  bastion,  and  composed  him* 
self  to  answer  questions. 

"  If  you  seek  General  Sarsfield,  he  is  before  you — say  your 
errand,  sir.” 

“  With  all  duty  and  courtesy,  gineral,  to  your  private  ear,” 
answered  Hogan. 

“  From  whom  come  you  V 1 

“  An’  I’ll  tell  that,  too,  if  you  let  me — in  my  own  way, 
gineral.” 

“  From  friends  or  foes  ?” 

“  Friends,  afther  a  manner.” 

“  I  should  suppose,”  said  Sarsfield  to  Grace,  “  only  for  the  un¬ 
usual  likeness  to  a  soldier  in  the  fellow’s  furniture  and  manner, 
as  also,  indeed,  the  utter  stupidity  of  his  vacant,  staring  features, 
that  he  was  a  Rapparee.” 

“  Doubt  him  not  for  those  reasons,”  observed  Evelyn.  “  The 
man  is  truly  what  you  suspect  ;  I  know  him  sufficiently  well.” 

“  Then  I  will  speak  with  him,  at  the  safe  side  of  the  wall 
though.  For  while  they  usually  affect  to  be  our  friends,  these 
rascals  have  ever  their  own  interests  in  whatever  they  do.  You, 
sir — fall  back  on  the  guard.” 

Hogan,  again  saluting,  obeyed.  Sarsfield  descended  to  the 
gate.  In  a  few  minutes  Evelyn  saw  him  joined  by  the  Rap¬ 
paree,  now  on  foot ;  and  they  walked  up  and  down,  engaged  in 
earnest  conversation — Sarsfield,  though  a  good-sized  mem,  look¬ 
ing  like  a  boy,  beside  his  gigantic  companion. 

The  information  Hogan  conveyed  seemed  much  to  interest 
the  general.  He  stopped  ;  frowned  earnestly  at  the  Rapparee, 
as  if  at  once  to  doubt  and  probe  his  story  ;  then  spoke  quickly, 
as  if  cross-examining  him  ;  paused  again  ;  waved  Hogan,  after 
a  few  additional  words,  towards  the  guard-house  ;  and  returned, 
much  excited,  into  the  fortification. 

The  moment  he  joined  his  friends  on  the  bastion,  he  drew 
John  Grace  aside,  and  gave  him  some  instructions,  which  roused 
into  an  energy  equal  to  his  own  the  features  of  that  young 
officer.  As  they  parted,  Evelyn  heard  these  words  : 

“  Closeness  and  prudence,  John.  Five  hundred  of  my  own 
horse,  at  the  least,  to  meet  me  here  by  half  an  hour  past  nine. 
The  harvest  night  will  then  have  fully  fallen.  Ask  no  more  to 
be  of  our  party.  I  trust  none  other  with  my  purpose,  and  there- 

21* 


m 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


fore  no  other  can  I  leave  behind  to  tend  the  signal-fire  from 
Mary’s  steeple.  So  to  business,  John.  And  remember  the 
signal.  If  they  make  no  stir  at  William’s  camp,  let  it  burn 
evenly,  till  midnight.  If  they  do — and  see  that  our  spies  look 
close,  and  bring  you  tidings  good  and  quick — then  three  times 
let  it  blaze  high,  and  three  times  go  out.  And  so,  till  the  morn¬ 
ing,  farewell.” 

His  aid-de-camp  retired,  and  he  turned  to  Evelyn. 

“  Mr.  Evelyn,  you  are  concerned  in  this.  I  have  often  heard 
you  wish  to  get  free  discourse,  under  a  safeguard,  from  the  Rap- 
paree  captain  called  Yaman-ac-knuck.  Come  with  me  when  the 
night  sets  in,  and,  as  I  can  hear,  we  shall  see  him  before  morning.” 

“  Thanks,  sir.  I  will  willingly  ride  with  you,  always  assured 
that  I  am  not  exposed  to  join  iu  any  attempt  against  King  Wil¬ 
liam’s  arms.” 

“  Content  you,  sir.  I  speak  but  for  your  private  advantage.” 
Evelyn  had  no  more  to  say. 

Sarsfield  remained  near  him — sometimes  standing  motionless, 
his  face  turned  to  the  right  up  the  river  ;  sometimes  striding 
impatiently  along  the  contiguous  wall  ;  and  sometimes  turning 
his  flushed  brow  to  the  tardy  west,  as  if  impatient  of  the  dull 
red  glow  that  was  so  long  fading  into  the  blank  of  night.  The 
short,  quick  sighs  that  will  flit  at  intervals  from  a  breast  filled 
with  a  great  purpose,  served  more  particularly  to  denote  his 
mood. 

At  last  the  moonless  night  fell  down.  The  hour  was  come. 
Five  hundred  Lucan  horse  awaited  his  pleasure  at  the  gate  ; 
and  in  a  few  seconds  he  and  they,  Evelyn  by  his  side,  dashed  up 
the  steep  ascent  leading  to  the  country.  They  met  Hogan, 
ready-mounted,  on  the  summit  of  the  elevation  ;  and,  without  a 
moment’s  pause,  the  Rapparee,  placed  at  Sarsfield’s  left  hand, 
and  well-looked  after  by  dragoons,  before  and  behind,  led  the 
way,  soon  turning  to  the  right,  along  the  road  to  Killaloe,  a 
considerable  village  about  ten  miles  up  the  river. 

During  the  commencement  of  the  hard  ride,  Evelyn  could 
perceive  that  the  route  gave  occasional  glimpses,  to  his  right,  of 
the  broad  and  curving  Shannon,  drearily  visible  under  the 
shadows  of  night.  To  his  left,  and  before  him,  ran,  almost  at  a 
parallel  with  the  road,  the  remote  county  Clare  hills,  relieved,  iu 
their  intense  blackness,  against  the  dim  sky,  at  the  nearest  com¬ 
mencement  of  their  range,  but  mingling  and  massing  with  the 
general  gloom  as  they  receded  in  the  distance. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


491 


Some  time  after  leaving  the  city,  and  getting  into  this  line — ■ 
where,  obliquely  and  from  a  good  distance,  a  gun  detached  from 
the  hostile  battery  might  possibly  be  brought  to  bear  on  them 
from  William’s  side — Hogan  pulled  up. 

“  Fair  an’  asy  here,”  he  said.  “  The  night  an’  the  wather 
together  are  the  divil  entirely  for  sharpenin’  people’s  ears.  An’ 
though  it’s  a  crooked  shot  they’d  have  to  make,  betther  let  the 
horses’  hoofs  go  as  quiet  over  this  rocky  road  as  a  body  can.  I 
believe  you  are  of  my  mind,  General  Sarsfield  ?” 

“  I  am.  Though  we  should  little  regard  their  shot,  yet  their 
observation  we  do  not  want.” 

“  That’s  the  thruth,  general.  Though,  upon  my  honor,  a  shot 
or  two  might  not  be  amiss  now,  at  laste.  Howsomever,  it  was 
thrown  away  on  a  single  man  and  horse,  like  myself,  this  even¬ 
ing.” 

“  What !  They  saw  you  coming,  then  ?” 

“  Troth  an’  they  did,  an’  had  the  impidence  to  bring  a  flying 
gun  to  bear  on  me  too.  But  that’s  what  I  call  wilful  waste, 
gineral.  For,  supposin’  they  doue  their  work  never  so  well,  no 
single  man  an’  horse — the  best-sized  on  the  face  of  the  earth — 
ever  pays  the  waste  of  shot  and  powther,  barrin’  from  a  firelock, 
carbine,  or  petronel.” 

“You  say  true,”  answered  Sarsfield,  smiling  at  the  matter-of- 
fact,  and  certainly  disinterested,  calculations  of  his  guide,  w  and 
you  must  have  seen  service,  I  reckon  ?” 

“  That,”  replied  Hogan,  “  is  visible,  l  believe,  to  any  soldier 
who  notes  my  appearance,  which  I  studiously  attend  to  even 
among  the  poor  cratures  it  is  now  my  lot  to  call  comrades.  I 
wras  with  ould  Schomberg  at  Maestricht,  when  he  prevailed  on 
little  Willie  to  raise  the  siege,  before  they  grew  cronies,  in  the 
long  run.” 

“  Why  did  you  leave  regular  service  ?” 

“  A  thrick  I  had  of  not  likin’  to  stay  long  in  the  same  place, 
or  doin’  the  same  thing.  I  began  the  world  with  a  light  heart 
an’  nothing  in  my  pocket,  an’,  faith,  maybe  no  pocket  to  put  it 
in  if  I  had.  My  father  had  eleven  of  us,  all  as  big  as  himself  ; 
all  able  to  ate  and  drink  as  much — 'God  bless  the  mark  ! — and 
very  little  to  give  us,  for  that  same  purpose,  afther  the  estate 
grew  into  a  thrifle  o’  debt,  an’  the  husbands  o’  seven  o’  my 
sisters  come  down  on  it  for  marriage  portions.  So  we  had  to 
cut  out  our  own  loaf  with  our  own  hands.  One  went  east,  another 
west  j  one  south,  an’  another  north  ;  ou3  this  way,  an’  another 


492 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


that  ;  an’  my  own  self  went  over  to  their  high  mightinesses.  I 
liked  them  well  enough  for  a  time.  Their  atm’,  an’  drinkin’,  an’ 
smokin’,  an’  fightin’-work,  an’  all.  But  there  was  a  bother  about 
somethin’  or  other  they  thought  to  lay  to  my  charge  ;  a  little 
misunderstanding  on  the  head  of  a  weighty  valise  belonging  to 
an  officer  of  our  own  corps  ;  to  say  nothin’  of  the  hole  in  his 
crown,  that  they  supposed  he  never  got  from  the  enemy.  So, 
this,  an’  more  o’  their  glum  an  gosther  about  the  measure  of 
Hollands  I  allowed  myself — as  if  a  man  of  my  inches  could  live 
on  what  sarved,  well  enough,  a  bit  of  a  stumpy  Dutchman — wny, 
upon  the  whole,  I  say,  I  got  tired,  and  left  them.” 

“  And  then  came  home,  I  warrant  ?” 

“Just  so,  gineral,”  answered  Hogan  ;  “in  the  saison.” 

“  To  command  an  independent  army  of  your  own  ?”  continued 
Sarsfield. 

“  That  same,  for  some  time,  till  I  met  a  betther  man  than 
myself,  and  afther  a  fair  thrial  between  us,  allowed  him  the  upper 
hand.  All  in  honor,  you  see,  general.  Natural  talents  and 
gifts  ever  gain  their  own,  the  world  over.  And  a  man,  how- 
somever  great,  is  bound  to  sarve  a  greater  as  loyally  as  ever  he 
took  care  of  himself,  when  onct  they  come  together,  and  the 
struggle  for  who  shall  is  past.” 

“1  respect  your  reasoning,”  said  Sarsfield,  half  serious, 
indeed,  in  his  admiration  of  the  honor  amongst  rogues  thus 
illustrated.  “  How  soon  was  this  after  your  capture  of  Mr. 
Evelyn’s  house,  in  the  north  ?”  For  Evelyn  had  told  Sarsfield 
the  story. 

“  Long  afther,  gineral.  I  see  the  fame  of  that  clever  little 
affair  has  reached  you.  Long  afther  our  retreat  from  Derry, 
even,  where  I  was  commander-in-chief  of  the  independent  Irish 
brigade,  until  it  increased  to  such  numbers  as  to  require  to  be 
fairly  halved  between  myself  and  another.  Then  I  marched  for 
the  south,  about  here,  with  my  own  half ;  my  colleague,  that, 
at  the  time,  I  never  saw,  stopping  in  the  north  ;  and,  under  the 
convenient  thravelling  name  of  Yamen-ac-knuck,  doing  such 
wondhers  as  made  nothing  of  my  fame  in  my  own  district.  So 
that  I  got  jealous  of  him — I  mane  in  the  way  that  brave  men 
get  jealous  of  ach  other — and  longed  to  meet  him  face  to  face, 
and,  as  I  said,  have  a  thrial  for  it.  And  there’s  the  end  o’  my 
story.  Yamen-ac-knuck,  and  no  other,  is  the  man  that  got  me 
undher.” 

“What!”  cried  Evelyn,  “a  person  so  young,  and  so  insig- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


493 


uificant  in  bodily  prowess  ?  I  take  it  for  granted  the  trial  was 
a  personal  rencounter.  And,  as  I  know,  or  some  years  since  did 
know,  the  lad  you  speak  of,  his  victory  over  such  a  man  as  you, 
General  Hogan,  much  surprises  me.” 

“  Captain  Hogan,  if  you  plase,  masther.  The  title  of  gineral 
does  not  fairly  belong  to  me,  since  that  same  day  we’re  spakin’ 
of.  And  don’t  be  so  much  surprised,  masther  (I  have  not  the 
honor  of  recollecting  your  name,  though  the  voice  is  somewhat 
familiar  to  me)  ;  the  few  years  you  mention  may  have  done  a 
good  dale  towards  adding  to  the  size  of  Gineral  Yaman’s  four 
bones,  and  putting  good  muscle  on  ’em.  And  I  promise  you, 
masther,  that  when  I  met  him,  only  a  few  months  ago,  he  was 
what  you’d  call  a  tall  fellow — that  is,  if  he  stood  alone,  and  out 
of  view  of  a  man  of  rare  stature.  And,  perchance,  making  up, 
in  activity,  and,  most  of  all,  in  a  knowledge  of  his  limbs  and 
weapons,  what  he  wanted  in  weight  and  inches.” 

“  It  may  be,”  answered  Evelyn  ;  “  but  where,  and  in  what 
manner,  did  ye  meet  ?” 

“  On  a  northern  road,  and  in  the  manner  following.  Not  able 
to  hould  myself  quiet  with  the  noise  of  his  great  doings,  I  took 
it  into  my  head  to  gallop  a  bit  alone  to  the  north,  and  have  one 
look  at  this  Yameu-ac-knuck.  Well,  masther,  as  I  was  one  day 
galloping  along  a  by-road,  I  met  a  man  alone,  like  myself,  com¬ 
ing  hot  against  me.  Says  I  to  him,  *  Do  you  know  any  thing  of 
one  Yamen-ac-knuck  ?’  ‘  A  little,’  says  he.  *  Maybe  you’re 

looking  for  him  ?’  ‘  I  am,’  says  I ;  ‘  and  I  come  many  a  mile  to 

see  him.’  ‘  Any  special  business  V  says  he.  ‘  Why,  yes,’  say  I  ; 
‘I’d  like  just  to  get  him  afore  me,  and,  after  all  his  mighty 
great  doings,  have  one  bout  to  thry  which  shall.’  ‘  Would 
you  ?’  says  he  ;  ‘  then  you  needn’t  thravel  much  further.  I’m 
Yamen-ac-knuck.’  ‘  You  1’  says  I,  looking  at  him.  ‘  Ay,  my 
own  self,’  says  he.  ‘  Very  well,  again,’  says  I.  ‘And  do  you 
know  who  lam?’  ‘  No,’  says  he  ;  ‘  maybe  you’d  tell.’  ‘  Maybe 
I  would,’  says  I  ;  ‘  I’m  Galloping  Hogan.’  ‘  Are  you  ?’  says 
he,  reining  back  his  horse,  to  take  a  good  view  o’  me,  while  I 
done  the  same  by  him  ;  and  so,  we  shook  hands,  and,  after  chat¬ 
ting  a  bit,  went  to  our  work,  like  two  brothers. 

“The  first  thrial  was  at  the  wrastling.  We  sthripped  to  the 
buffs,  and  took  hoult  of  ach  other.  He  threw  me,  two  falls  out 
o’  three.  Ay,  well  may  ye  cry  out ;  but  it’s  the  blessed  thruth 
I’m  telling.  4  You’re  the  man  so  far,’  says  I  ;  ‘  will  you  thry  a 
long  shot  with  the  carbiue,  now  ?’  ‘  Never  say  it  again,’  says 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


*94 

he.  With  that  we  stepped  thirty  steps  from  one  another,  and 
fired,  at  a  word.  His  first  ball  took  me  in  the  flish  of  the  back  ; 
his  second,  in  the  flish  of  the  cheek  ;  his  third — but  before  he 
fired  that — 4  now,  just  to  touch  your  hip/  says  he  ;  and  before 
the  saying  was  out,  I  felt  it  in  the  hip,  sure  enough.  4  I  know 
you’re  not  hurt,  he  then  called  out,  4  with  any  o’  the  three  shots, 
as  I  made  the  proper  allowances.  But  they  all  grazed  you  ;  and 
as  none  o’  yours  came  nearer  than  an  inch,  or  so,  I  suppose  this 
will  do,  too.’ 

“  I  agreed  in  the  same  ;  and  we  stepped  up,  face  to  face, 
again.  4  Put  on  your  pott,  and  your  back-and-breast/  Yamen- 
ac-knuck  went  on,  4  and  draw  your  soord.’  4  Never  say  it  again/ 
says  I,  cock-sure  of  the  matter,  now,  at  laste.  So,  we  helped 
ach  other  to  our  defences  and  weapons  ;  picked  out  a  handy 
bit  o’  ground  ;  crossed  our  soords,  and  began  our  last  work 
with  two  hearts  as  light  as  any  feather. 

44  As  I  expected,  this  came  to  my  hand  nater  than  the  wrast- 
ling  or  the  shooting  ;  and,  after  a  good  half  hour,  he  wasn’t 
able  to  scratch  me.  4  Let  us  rest/  says  he,  4  and  go  to  the  brook 
for  a  sup  o’  water  ;  the  day  is  hot.’  4  Let  us/  says  I  ;  and  we 
went ;  sat  down,  a  bit,  afther  drinking  ;  come  back  to  our 
ground,  and  tackled  to  for  the  second  bout.  In  a  little  time  I 
drew  a  taste  o’  blood  from  his  showlder  ;  and  when  he  felt  it 
and  saw  it,  Yamen-ac-knuck  lost  all  Christian  temper,  and  his 
face  grew  so  angry,  and  so  grand,  along  with  it,  that  it  was 
frightful.  I  never  saw,  afore,  a  mortial  man  able  to  stir  me 
with  a  look,  or  able  to  make  me  feel  that  he  was  my  masther  ; 
not  among  all  the  great  men,  ginerals,  and  kiugs,  that  came  under 
my  eyes,  did  I  ever  see  his  likes,  in  regard  o’  that.  4  Your  sword 
— your  sword,  fellow  !’  he  cried  out,  closing  me.  My  heart 
gave  it  up  before  my  hand ;  and  it  was  no  cowardice,  but  the 
masthery  he  had  over  me  by  coorse  of  nature,  I  think.  He  got 
it,  and  bid  me  beg  my  life.  ‘No/  says  I  ;  4  but  if  you  give  it, 
I’ll  sarve  you  loyally,  while  my  life  lasts.’  4  Well/  says  he,  get¬ 
ting  mighty  quiet  in  a  moment,  4  that  will  do  as  well — betther, 
maybe  ;  you’re  a  tall,  stout  chap  ;  and  I  believe  I  may  depend 
on  you.’  With  that,  Gineral  Sarsfield,  we  sthruck  a  bargain. 
I  marched  up  my  men  from  the  south,  to  put  ’em  undher  him, 
at  the  Boyne,  where  we  worked  together,  our  two  brigades 
helping  ach  other.  And  from  that  day  to  this,  I’m  Yamen’s 
captain  ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  his  courier  to  you,  this  holy 
and  blessed  night.” 


THE  BOYHE  WATER. 


495 


The  Rapparee’s  story  brought  them  past  the  point  at  which 
they  could  have  continued  exposed  to  any  observation.  Of  this 
he  gave  notice  himself  ;  and  urging  the  propriety  of  their 
renewing  their  “  bit  of  a  gallop,”  all  set  off,  under  his  guidance, 
at  full  speed. 

The  road  over  which  the  party  journeyed  was  not  the  same 
now  usually  taken  from  Limerick  to  Killaloe.  Our  predecessors 
seem  to  have  been  possessed  with  a  stubborn  idea  of  going  for¬ 
ward  in  the  straightest  line  possible,  and  were  not  to  be  deterred 
from  this  resolve  by  any  except  insurmountable  obstructions. 
Accordingly,  their  route  from  Limerick  to  Killaloe,  at  the  time 
of  our  story,  ran  boldly  forward  over  hills  so  steep  as  to  give 
the  panting  horse  an  appearance  as  if  he  went  on  his  hinder  legs, 
and  then,  of  course,  down  precipitate  declivities,  that,  vice  versa , 
seemed  to  throw  his  heels  into  the  air.  When  rocky  barriers  or 
high  banks  opposed,  no  effort  had  been  made  to  remove  them  ; 
so  that  the  way  often  became  narrowed  almost  to  the  breadth 
indispensable  for  a  single  horseman.  Huge  stones  sometimes 
choked  up  even  such  passes,  leaving  the  Lucan  troopers  to  strug¬ 
gle  on  as  they  might.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  route,  a  thick 
wood  of  old  oak  spread  at  either  hand,  nearly  excluding  the  feeble 
starlight.  More  than  once  they  had  to  dismount,  to  bring  their 
eyes  in  close  acquaintance  with  the  difficulties  to  be  surmounted. 

A  road,  very  nearly  in  the  same  line,  may,  at  this  day,  be- 
travelled.  But  our  present  taste,  or  our  more  effeminate  atten¬ 
tion  to  convenience,  has  suggested  the  propriety  of  wheeling 
round  the  bases  of  the  hills,  instead  of  clambering  over  them. 
Rocks  that  would  have  defied  Old  Time  till  doomsday,  have  dis¬ 
appeared  before  the  ephemeral  cunning  of  those  whom  Time  has 
outlived.  Altogether,  the  way  has  been  freed  of  the  impedi¬ 
ments  Sarsfield’s  men  had  to  contend  with  ;  so  that,  with  all 
our  veneration  for  antiquity,  we  are  reduced  to  admit,  that  if  we 
have  lost  much  of  the  herculean  prowess  of  our  ancestors,  in 
surmounting  toilsome  difficulties,  we  have  providentially  acquired 
a  better  method  of  avoiding  them. 

From  the  summits  of  the  different  heights,  as  he  went  along, 
Sarsfield  turned  in  his  saddle  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  beacon-light 
that  flared  on  Mary’s  steeple.  Ever  it  met  his  glance  burning 
brightly  and  steadily,  without  a  variation,  save  that  caused  by 
gradually  increasing  distance.  But  another  sudden  flame, 
bursting  out  upon  an  eminence,  over  the  road,  now  startled  him 
and  caused  him  to  question  Hogan. 


496 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“That’s  a  token  that  friends  are  near  at  hand,  giueral,  to 
greet  you,  and  pass  you  on.  The  signal  appears  from  the  ould 
castle  of  Aherina,  built  by  the  red-haired  Danes,  I  hear  say,  in 
the  times  gone  by.  To  tell  God’s  thruth,  the  thiefs  were  no 
great  hand  at  the  architecture.  It’s  on  the  highest  knock* 
about  here,  though  many  more  knocks  surround  us,  not  to  be 
seen  by  raison  of  the  darkness.  The  lads  wait  your  challenge.” 

“  Then  will  I  follow  you.  Stand,  men,  and  expect  me  here  ; 
a  few  only  with  us.  Are  you  curious  to  mount  to  this  Rappa- 
ree  fastness,  Master  Evelyn  ?” 

Evelyn  accompanied  him,  Hogan,  and  a  few  dragoons  up  the 
little  hill.  They  were  challenged  by  some  persons  who  stood 
inside  a  rude  trench  that,  at  a  short  distance,  surrounded  the 
old  building,  and  whose  half-naked  figures  and  wild  features  were 
in  part  lit  up  by  the  glaring  light  from  the  top  of  one  of  the 
rudest  of  those  square  castles,  formerly  abounding  in  Ireland, 
and  of  which  the  ruins  of  many,  and  of  this  among  the  number, 
are  yet  to  be  seen.  Hogan  answered  their  challenge.  They  re¬ 
turned  a  shout  of  recognition  ;  and  while  some  hastened  to 
remove  a  barrier  of  sods,  bushes,  and  large  stones  that  filled 
a  gap  in  the  inclosure,  others  entered  the  building  by  a  rude 
Gothic  archway,  so  low  as  to  require  them  to  bend  almost 
double.  They  shortly  returned,  attending  a  person  who,  from 
his  steel  cap  and  breast-piece,  in  which  the  flame  bickered 
brightly,  seemed  to  be  their  commander.  As  he  rushed  out  to 
greet  Sarsfield,  in  a  manner  at  once  ardent  and  wild,  Evelyn 
recognized  Con  M’Donnell. 

And  the  recognition  was  mutual.  Suddenly  checking  himseil 
in  his  hurried  advance  to  Sarsfield,  the  dumb  man’s  eye  fixed  on 
Evelyn.  Emitting  a  fearful  scream,  he  snatched  a  piece  of 
flaming  wood  from  one  of  the  men — ran  with  it  towards  our  as¬ 
tonished  friend — held  it  up  to  his  face — screamed  again — drew 
back — looked  very  angry  and  agitated — drew  his  sword — and 
made  signs  to  the  surrounding  Rapparees  to  take  into  custody  the 
object  of  his  wrath. 

There  was  a  movement  to  obey  his  commands  ;  but  Sarsfield 
first,  and  Hogan  next  interfered — the  latter  conversing  with  Con 
M’Donnell  in  his  own  language,  often  pointing  to  the  road,  as  if 
to  warn  him  of  the  proximity  of  five  hundred  of  the  celebrated 
Lucan  horse.  At  last  it  seemed  that  the  expostulation  proved 


*  Hill. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


497 


successful.  The  dumb  man  paused  a  moment,  glared  his  fiery 
eyes  on  the  ground,  took  a  sudden  thought,  seized  a  horse  near 
him,  led  the  way  down  the  eminence,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
whole  Limerick  party  were  in  a  renewed  motion  after  him,  at  a 
furious  rate.  Hogan,  as  if  from  a  proper  care  of  the  character 
that  had  gained  him  his  surname,  resolved  not  to  be  outgalloped 
by  auy  man,  keeping  close  by  Con  M’DonnelPs  side. 

The  night  seemed  trebly  darker  than  before,  on  account  of 
their  sudden  removal  from  the  strong,  flaring  lights  at  Aherina 
Castle.  Straining  agaiust  a  steep  hill,  they  continued  a  route, 
that,  at  almost  every  step,  presented  a  difficulty.  The  night- 
wind  moaned  over  a  black  moor  below  them,  and  agitated  with 
a  hollow  noise  the  myriad  branches  of  the  great  wood  that 
stretched  across  to  the  mountains.  Then  they  descended,  and 
got  a  view  of  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  little  village  of  Bridge¬ 
town  under  them — itself  partly  on  a  height,  though  thus  com¬ 
manded  by  a  greater  one.  Fast  went  the  dragoons  down  the 
steep,  scaring  the  few  inhabitants. of  the  lonely  group  of  cabins, 
and  doing  their  best  to  keep  in  sight  Hogan  and  his  dumb  com¬ 
panion.  Splash  they  went  over  a  rough  stream,  that  crossed  the 
road  at  the  bottom.  Up.  they  strained,  passing  the  little  village 
like  a  whirlwind,  against  an  ascent,  at  its  other  side.  Round 
they  wheeled  to  the  left,  now  approaching  the  forms  of  vast 
hills  that  had  hitherto  only  vaguely  overshadowed  the  blank 
waste  to  their  left  and  before  them,  but  that  now  cowered  round 
in  some  shape  and  meaning.  Onward,  still  onward,  until  they 
were  shut  up  amid  amphitheatrical  curvings  of  hills  on  every 
side.  Round,  round  again  ;  and  down  and  up,  and  down  again, 
until  the  horses’  hoofs  rang  hollow  over  the  little  bridge  of 
Ballycorney,  that  with  one  rude  arch  crossed  a  considerable 
mountain-torrent,  rushing  from  the  hills  to  their  left,  through  a 
deep-wooded  dell  at  either  side.  Here  Sarsfield  gave  the  word 
to  halt,  while  he  inquired  who  would  undertake  to  guide  him  and 
his  men  across  the  Shannon,  three  miles  up  at  Killaloe. 

The  only  person  present  acquainted  with  the  ford  was  Cap¬ 
tain  Hogan.  But  with  much  propriety  he  stated,  that  having 
only  crossed  it  once  or  twice,  and  on  both  occasions  in  the  day¬ 
time,  he  could  not  take  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  guid¬ 
ing  over  it,  in  the  darkness  of  night,  so  large  a  body  of  men. 
He  added,  however,  that  on  his  way  to  Limerick  he  had  made 
it  his  business  to  inquire,  in  the  neighborhood,  who  was  most 
likely  to  afford,  at  a  pinch,  such  a  good  service.  “  And  yonder, 


498 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


gineral,”  continued  Hogan,  pointing  to  a  respectable  looking 
house  on  the  steep  road-side — “  yonder  lives  the  man,  Masther 
Cecil,  I  hear,  son  of  the  owner  of  the  house.”  In  a  few  minutes 
half  a  dozen  carbines  thundered  at  the  dcor  ;  and  in  a  short 
time  the  young  man  was,  without  a  choice  between  refusal  and 
assent,  mounted  behind  a  trooper,  Sarsfi  eld’s  cocked  pistol  at 
one  ear,  Galloping  Hogan’s  at  the  other,  and  both,  he  was  given 
to  understand,  ready  to  be  used  in  case  of  treachery,  or  even 
want  of  zeal,  with  indifferent  good  effect.  So  that,  although 
a  stanch  Williamite,  Master  Cecil  found  himself  compelled  to 
guide  the  Lucan  horse  towards  Killaloe  ford,  on  James’s  service. 

Up  from  Bally corney  Bridge,  the  five  hundred  Lucan  horse 
again  clattered,  just  as  a  waning  moon  began  to  rise,  and  faintly 
show  a  somewhat  more  open  and  expansive  view  than  had  hitherto 
been  afforded.  It  showed  the  river  curving  through  valleys  and 
plains  ;  the  near  mountains  coming  out,  as  they  half  caught  the 
weak  light,  into  greater  varieties  of  form  ;  crossing  and  intersecting 
each  other  ;  above  all,  the  bold  summit  of  the  Crag  Hill.  While 
to  the  right,  over  the  river,  Sarsfield  and  Evelyn,  directed  by 
Hogan,  beheld  the  gloomy  range  of  mountains,  situated  in  the 
county  of  Tipperary,  towards  which  they  were  in  motion,  and 
which,  at  earlier  periods  of  their  forced  march,  could  have  been 
seen,  were  it  daylight,  or,  as  was  now  beginning  to  be  the  case, 
even  moonlight. 

“  And  there  they  are,”  said  Hogan,  “  Llieve  Iellum — that  Is, 
the  mountains  of  Iellum,  an  ancient  prince  of  the  district.  Im¬ 
properly,  and  as  my  worthy  instructor  often  told  me  when  I  was 
a  boy  at  my  book,  ungrammatically  called  Slieve  Bloom,  Slieve 
being  the  singular.  Also  fitly  termed  Dho  knock-dhee-og ,  or 
the  twelve  hills,  there  being  that  number  remarkable  above  the 
rest,  by  reason  of  natural  size  and  importance.” 

Scarcely  attending  to  the  Rapparee’s  half-heard  topography, 
Sarsfield  watchfully  followed  in  the  steps  of  his  new  guide,  often 
urging  him  to  increase  his  speed.  Again  the  wild  and  wayward 
road,  after  precipitously  descending  to  Ballyheige  brook,  made 
many  turns  and  sweeps,  each  alternately  showing,  like  the  sud¬ 
den  changes  of  a  panorama,  close  and  stupendously-open  scenes. 
Until,  at  last,  Killaloe  appeared  in  sight,  partly  on  an  eminence 
before  them.  Not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  further  on  the 
left,  was  a  broad  spread  of  the  Shannon,  called  Lough  Dier- 
gart,  shining  in  the  more  matured  moonlight,  and  encompassed 
by  numerous  curving  hills,  of  which  some  of  the  bases  dipped 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


499 


into  the  placid  water,  particularly  that  of  the  bold  and  barren 
crag.  While  a  dark  clump  of  trees,  just  at  the  shore,  marked 
the  spot  where,  it  is  said,  Brian  Bourhoidhe  had  his  patrimonial 
castle. 

Swiftly  came  the  formidable  party  into  the  little  town  of 
Killaloe,  frightening  to  their  doors  or  windows,  and  then  back 
again  to  their  beds  or  hiding-places,  the  startled  and  marvelling 
inhabitants.  Evelyn  scarce  had  time  to  cast  his  eye  over  the 
venerable,  though  by  no  means  splendid  cathedral,  which  he  had 
heard  was  built  in  1165,  by  Donald  O’Brien,  King  of  Lum- 
neach  (Limerick),  or  to  notice,  near  to  it,  a  curious  old  struc¬ 
ture,  with  a  slanting  stone  roof,  of  which  he  had  also  heard, 
and  which  an  English-Irish  antiquary  has  since  pronounced  to 
be  a  specimen  of  the  earliest  Christian  temples  constructed  in 
Ireland.  Sarsfield,  not  allowing  a  moment’s  pause,  obliged 
young  Master  Cecil  to  lead  the  way  over  the  Shannon,  at  a  ford 
some  yards  above  the  present  bridge  of  Killaloe,  and  then  com¬ 
manded  by  a  fort  and  battery.  Half  an  hour  before  midnight, 
all  his  people  had  safely  crossed  into  the  county  of  Tipperary. 
And  still,  without  breathing,  the  whole  sortie  was  continued, 
over  hill  and  hollow,  dwarfishly  wooded,  or  boggy  and  barren, 
the  Llieve  Iellum  hills  now  very  near,  with  their  black  and  mas¬ 
sive  despot,  the  Keeper,  frowning  prominently  amid  all. 

About  two  miles  might  have  been  passed,  after  crossing  the 
Shannon,  when  the  party  had  to  dash  over  an  angry  mountain- 
brook,  that  ran  through  a  deep-wooded  hollow,  receding,  blackly 
and  mysteriously,  to  their  right  and  left.  Ere  Hogan  and  Con 
M’Donnell  led  the  way,  they  hastily  pulled  up  at  the  stream’s 
edge  ;  and  while  the  dumb  man  gesticulated  violently,  the  Rap- 
paree  captain  gave  a  shrill  whistle.  Sarsfield  could  scarce  de¬ 
mand  the  cause  of  a  signal  that  somewhat  startled  him,  when  it 
was  caught  up  and  repeated  again  and  again,  all  through  the 
recesses  of  the  hollows  ;  and  more  than  a  hundred  men  were 
seen  breaking  through  the  wood  on  every  side,  or  running  up  and 
down  the  chafing  brook,  in  motion  towards  Hogan.  Aware  of 
the  occasional  treachery  of  the  Rapparees  to  friends,  as  well  as 
foes,  Sarsfield  looked  close,  half  suspecting  an  ambush  of  the 
regular  enemy.  But  a  moment’s  observation  told  him  he  was 
approached  by  the  same  kind  of  half-naked,  though  fully-armed 
people,  who  had  garrisoned  Aherina  Castle.  And  when  they 
had  all  gathered  round,  he  was  further  relieved  by  noticing  their 
inferiority  in  number  to  his  own  troop. 


500 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  It’s  only  an  outpost,  gineral,”  remarked  Hogan,  perhaps  in 
reply  to  Sarsfield’s  looks.  “  For  howsomever  safe  we  may  be 
among  these  hills,  betther  sure  than  sorry  is  our  word.  Is  all 
right  at  the  camp  V ’  to  the  young  fellow  who  seemed  to  com¬ 
mand  the  wild  party. 

“  All’s  right,”  answered  the  lad  ;  “  we  expected  you.  Tak’  a 
score  of  my  men  to  lead  ye  on — they  ken  the  road  best.” 

Hogan  assented.  With  “  bannacth-lath,”  and  “gude-night  till 
ye,”  the  two  Rapparee  officers  parted. 

“  Stop  !”  cried  Evelyn  ;  “surely  I  know  that  voice.  Here  is 
the  good-fellow,  General  Sarsfield,  I  have  come  to  see — ” 

“  No  stopping  if  you  plase,  masther,”  answered  Hogan,  in¬ 
creasing  his  gallop,  to  cross  the  defile  which,  since  their  days, 
goes  by  the  name  of  Labba-dhy-ah ,  or  bed  of  thieves. 

“  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,  sir,”  continued  Evelyn,  “  that 
you  have  just  seen  the  conqueror  of  the  doughty  Galloping 
Hogan — Yamen-ac-knuck.” 

“  Indeed  !  that  slight  boy  ?”  asked  Sarsfield,  incredulously. 

“  Take  care  you  know  what  you’re  saying,  masther,”  observed 
Hogan,  in  reply  to  Evelyn. 

“Why,  you  spoke  of  Yamen-ac-knuck.  And  that  lad  I  know 
to  be  he.” 

“  Onct  upon  a  time,  maybe  so,  masther.  But  it’s  a  name  that 
sarves  many’s  the  one,  now-a-days.” 

“  What  1”  cried  Evelyn,  quickly  associating  some  former  in¬ 
cidents,  and  passing  suspicions,  “is  Yamen-ac-knuck  another 
person,  then  ?” — 

“  Wait  a  bit,”  answered  Hogan.  “  I  thank  my  God  I  have 
something  dacenter  to  show  for  the  story  I  tould,  than  sich  a 
scratch-cat  as  that.” 

“  But  tell  me,”  resumed  Evelyn,  much  excited,  “  what  is  the 
real  name  of  your  general  ?” 

‘  It’s  hard  to  tell  what  a  body  doesn’t  know,  masther.” 

“  Well,  only  another  word,  did  he  fight  at  the  Boyne  ?” 

“  I  tould  you  so,  afore,  masther.” 

“  Supporting  Sheldon’s  horse  ?” 

“  Thrue  for  you,  I’m  thinking.” 

“Then  I  have,  indeed,  seen  him!”  thought  Evelyn;  “and 
every  way  that  lying  girl  has  deceived  me  !  Thank  God  !” 
Not  clearly  knowing  why  he  felt  such  joy,  at  all  events  in  refer¬ 
ence  to  his  connection  with  Eva,  Evelyn  rode  on  in  high  spirits, 
and  in  earnest  and  agitating  expectations. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


601 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

u  From  Limerick,  that  day,  bould  Sarsfield  dashed  away, 

Until  he  came  to  Cullen,  where  their  artillery  lay ; 

The  Lord  cleared  up  the  firmament,  the  moon  and  stars  shone 
bright, 

And  for  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  he  had  revenge  that  night." 

Irish  Ballad. 

Still  (as  since  they  crossed  the  Shannon  they  had  done)  press¬ 
ing  over  small  hills,  diving  into  hollows,  and  splashing  through 
brooks,  the  road  now  seemiug  to  wind  off  from  a  forward  course, 
now  coming  upon  it  again,  the  party,  after  midnight,  saw  a 
partial  illumination  in  the  atmosphere,  and  presently  arrived  at 
the  place  of  their  temporary  destination. 

From  a  considerable  eminence,  they  descended  into  a  flat  of 
black,  boggy  ground,  encircled  by  a  chain  of  low  hills,  thickly 
wooded,  and  overtopped  by  the  sombre  and  shadowy  forms  of 
distant  mountains.  A  round,  stagnant  lough,  spreading  over 
about  three  acres,  was  in  the  middle  of  the  bottom  thus  hemmed 
in  and  embowered :  again,  the  lough  inclosed  a  little  round  island, 
of  about  a  quarter  of  an  acre.  By  the  verge  of  the  water,  Eve¬ 
lyn  indistinctly  saw  groups  of  rude  huts.  Similar  edifices  seemed 
huddled  together  on  the  island,  one  of  superior  size  rising  over 
the  rest.  Other  dark  masses,  stationary,  or  in  a  slow  and  waver¬ 
ing  motion,  gave  indication  of  the  human  occupants  of  this  sol¬ 
itary  and  dreary  scene.  Indeed,  at  his  first  glance,  every  thing 
was  but  vaguely  distinguished  by  Evelyn.  Lurid  gleams  from 
the  huts,  or,  here  and  there,  an  expiring  fire  alone  relieved  the 
surrounding  objects,  animate  or  inanimate,  for  the  rising  moon 
was  almost  wholly  excluded.  From  the  middle  of  the  island, 
solely,  spread  the  somewhat  superior  blaze  that,  faintly  reflected 
in  the  atmosphere,  had,  at  a  little  distance,  intimated  his  approach 
to  the  grand  headquarters  of  the  Rapparees.  The  changes 
wrought  by  time  have  since  dried  up  the  little  lough  ;  but  its 
site  is  well  known  among  the  hills.  Any  traveller  as  adventurous 
as  Sarsfield,  or  ourselves,  may  still  find  the  place  we  describe 
pointed  out  *o  him  as,  in  former  days,  the  freebooter's  haunt. 

From  the  swampy  nature  of  the  ground,  horses  could  not 
approach  the  lough.  All,  accordingly,  dismounted  ;  and  while 
liogau  engaged  that  the  greater  number  of  the  dragoons  should, 


502 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


under  his  eye,  oe  well  looked  after,  Sarsfield  and  Evelyn,  led  by 
Con  M’Donnell,  and  accompanied  but  by  a  few  of  their  own 
men,  stealthily  paced  onward.  The  living  masses  now  began  to 
thicken  around  :  cautious  whisperings  and  low  talking  came 
from  persons  they  could  not  see.  But  when,  at  the  edge  of  the 
water,  Con  M’Donnell  uttered  a  wild  cry,  as  if  giving  a  signal 
to  the  island,  they  were  instantly  surrounded  by  hordes  of  shock¬ 
headed  Rapparees,  now  more  discernible  in  the  chief  light  that 
shone  across  the  lough.  Some  of  them  wore  portions  of  the 
uniform  of  almost  every  regiment,  on  both  sides,  in  Ireland  ; 
some,  the  rags  of  the  common  coat,  vest,  and  breeches,  generally 
adopted  by  the  peasantry  of  the  south  ;  and  some,  nothing  but 
a  profusion  of  coarse  gray  cloth,  ludicrously  emulative  of  the 
cut  of  a  topcoat,  but  which  hung  in  easy  folds  around  their 
naked  limbs,  its  arms  never  used,  dangling  before  or  behind,  as 
we  see  to  be  the  case  with  some  of  the  costume  at  present  in 
esteem  amongst  a  portion  of  his  majesty’s  horse-soldiers.  Of 
those  whose  appearance  was  most  en  militaire,  a  steel  cap,  with 
a  projection  about  the  ears  and  back  of  the  wearer,  something 
like  a  London  dustman’s  hat  of  our  day,  was  worn  by  a  fellow 
who,  except  his  flowing  great  coat,  appeared  otherwise  naked. 
The  breast-piece  of  a  dragoon  adorned  another,  upon  whose  head 
was  no  covering  of  any  kind.  A  high  conical  grenadier’s  cap 
was  sported  by  a  third,  joined  to  a  horseman’s  buff  jacket,  or 
else  a  fine  fringed  and  embroidered  French  vest.  Or,  haply,  a 
fragile  hat  and  plume,  that  once  graced  the  brows  of  gentle 
maiden  or  matron,  now  unfitly,  and  with  some  hideous  intima¬ 
tion  of  the  way  in  which  it  had  been  obtained,  flapped  and 
waved  over  the  harsh  and  grimacing  features  of  a  fourth.  The 
legs  and  feet  of  all  had,  indeed,  one  common  uniform — Adam’s, 
when  he  was  innocent.  The  wild  people,  grinning  graciously  and 
ducking  low  to  Sarsfield,  shaking  hands  with  his  few  attending 
dragoons,  or  capering  and  prancing  round  them,  broke  towards 
our  party  from  the  dark  groups  hitherto  seen  around  ;  or  sprang 
up,  in  knots,  from  the  ground  ;  or  galloped  out  of  their  low  huts, 
hastily  and  iuartificially  constructed  with  stakes  of  bogwood 
branches  of  trees,  turf,  and  rushes.  Their  attentions  grew  dis 
agreeable,  if  not  startling,  until  the  signal  being  answered  by 
hoisting  something  like  a  flag  over  the  principal  edifice  on  the 
island,  the  strangers  were  approached  by  a  rude  raft,  made  first 
of  a  kind  of  wickerwork,  on  a  large  scale,  and  then  covered  with 
sods  and  leaves.  At  a  glance,  Evelyn  knew  Rory-na-chopple  to 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


503 


be  the  pilot  of  this  singlar  machine.  Nor  was  Rory  slow  in  dis¬ 
cerning  him,  and  in  manifesting  his  recognition,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  did  his  devoirs  to  Sarsfield.  Con  M’Donnell  stood,  until 
the  raft  touched  the  mainland,  regarding  this  civility  with  mani¬ 
fest  displeasure  and  impatience  ;  when  Rory  was  within  reach  of 
his  signs,  he  seemed  to  reprehend,  severely  and  authoritatively, 
all  show  of  welcome  to  Evelyn.  A  few  seconds  brought  them 
with  their  dragoons  over  the  lough.  Here  the  dumb  man  took 
Sarsfield’s  arm,  as  politely  as  he  knew  how,  but  very  abruptly  ; 
hurried  him  towards  the  middle  of  the  island,  motioning  Rory  to 
take  Evelyn  in  charge.  Onward  both  pressed,  followed  by  the 
dragoons,  towards  the  larger  hut,  crowds  of  Rapparees  still  di¬ 
viding  to  let  them  pass,  or  following  them  with  clamorous  greet¬ 
ings.  Evelyn  at  last  found  himself  in  a  spacious  kind  of  bower, 
constructed  more  carefully  and  daintily  than  the  other  huts,  but 
occupied  only  by  some  of  the  higher  class  of  Rapparees,  whose 
faces  he  had  before  seen  in  his  own  house,  and  affording  him  no 
view  of  the  person  his  heart  had  been  panting  to  look  upon. 

One  part  of  the  sylvan  walls  which  surrounded  him  was  cov¬ 
ered,  to  the  height  of  a  man,  with  a  rude  tapestry  of  otter  and 
fox  skins,  attached  together,  and  as,  at  its  sides,  some  vivid  and 
steady  light  came  through,  Evelyn  supposed  it  led  into  another 
apartment.  Nor  was  he  mistaken.  When  Con  M’Dounell  had 
graciously  forced  Sarsfield  to  a  seat,  and  bent  upon  Evelyn 
another  dangerous  scowl,  he  rapidly  strode  across  the  floor, 
flung  aside  the  arras  of  skins,  which,  catching  upon  the  woven 
wall,  remained  apart,  after  his  rough  motion,  thus  allowing  a 
view  of  the  interior.  Then  he  approached  a  man,  who,  seated 
sideways  at  a  small  rough  table,  Evelyn  at  once  recognized. 

At  once,  although  a  new  and  extraordinary  change  had  come 
over  face  and  bearing.  Of  the  round-cheeked,  fresh-colored, 
ingenuous  boy  he  had  appeared  when  Evelyn  first  saw  him  in 
his  father’s  thatched  house,  in  Glenarriff,  not  a  trace,  alas !  re¬ 
mained  :  that  character,  however,  Evelyn  could  not  expect  to  see. 
But  the  manly  and  soldierly  dash  of  Edmund  during  their  after¬ 
rencounter,  in  Little  Deer-park,  had  also  vanished.  Yet  this, 
too,  the  friend  recollected,  seemed  long  ago  to  have  as  fully 
yielded  to  the  almost  savage  sternness  that  followed  the  death 
of  Esther,  and  the  degradation  of  poor  M’Donnell  from  his 
place  in  Lord  Antrim’s  regiment.  And  at  length  Evelyn  only 
wondered  to  behold  the  very  latest  change  he  had  witnessed  now 
occupied  by  another,  as  novel  as  it  was  deeply  interesting  and 


504 


THE  BOYNE  WATE2. 


imposing.  Edmund  M’Donnell,  before  bis  z,tf5P.lics  '  >as  roused 
by  the  near  approach  of  his  uncle,  had  set  oa'm  'a&  quiescent 
at  the  little  table,  every  limb  and  feature  cor.pv><l.  His  cheek, 
no  longer  red  and  full  in  boyhood,  nor  yet  pele  and  worn  with 
sorrow  and  despair,  had  a  brown,  healthy  color  ;  no  wrinkles  of 
passion  or  grief  furrowed  his  fair  and  ample  forehead.  His  eye, 
which  Evelyn  first  knew  a  quick  and  flashing  eye,  and  afterwards 
a  deep  and  glaring  one,  was  at  rest ;  his  mouth,  that  used  tc 
breathe  with  quick  thought,  or  curl  out,  open  and  haughtily, 
was  gently  shut,  its  lips  forming,  in  profile,  the  graceful  curves 
that  statuaries  love  to  copy.  In  a  word,  all  was  quietness  about 
him  ;  he  looked  a  calm,  unruffled,  reflective  man.  And,  unless 
such  calmness  itself  give  a  kind  of  sternness,  Edmund  M’Donnell, 
though  with  the  alias  of  a  formidable  freebooter  to  his  name, 
was  no  longer  stern. 

When  ne  perceived  his  uncle’s  near  approach,  he  extended  his 
hands,  and  the  dumb  man  fell  on  his  nephew’s  neck.  In  a  few 
minutes  they  made  signs  to  each  other,  and  Edmund  seemed  first 
interested,  and  then  slightly  agitated.  He  pointed  to  the  rude 
arras,  looking  towards  some  person  hitherto  unseen  within.  A 
light  foot  approached  the  opening  ;  a  small  hand  grasped  the 
arras.  Evelyn’s  heart  swelled  to  his  throat — he  was  satisfied. 
The  features  that  rapidly  peered  into  the  outer  room  could  not 
be  mistaken  ;  one  only  glance  he  had  ;  the  arras  fell,  and  he 
was  left  in  torture. 

A  considerable  pause  ensued.  At  last,  Con  M’Donnell  re¬ 
appeared  through  the  opening,  not  now  leaving  it  apart,  how¬ 
ever,  and  beckoned  Sarsfield,  while,  in  an  ill-humor  of  a  different 
kind  from  that  he  had  before  manifested,  he  once  more  frowned 
on  Evelyn.  The  general  arose  at  his  bidding  ;  both  disappeared 
into  the  interior  of  the  hut  ;  and  Evelyn  was  left  to  the  atten¬ 
tions,  anecdotes,  and  characteristic  humor  of  Rory-na-choppel 
and  his  fellows.  Two  well-armed  body-guards  taking  up  their 
posts  at  either  side  of  the  opening. 

After  another  long  pause,  Sarsfield  came  out  to  Evelyn,  and 
took  him  aside. 

“  Here  is  a  singular  discovery,”  he  said  ;  “  this  doughty  free¬ 
booter  proves  to  be  ai  old  friend,  in  whom  we  are  both  inter¬ 
ested.” 

“  I  know  it,  sir,”  replied  Evelyn,  with  a  groan.  “  I  have  seen 
him.” 

“  Something  seems  to  have  happened  between  ye  that  causes 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


505 


him  to  wish  you  should  not  come  in  his  way.  His  dumb  rela¬ 
tive  even  urged  worse  measures  towards  you,  and  is  angry  at 
their  being  declined.  I  seek  not  to  learn  your  private  affairs  ; 
but  if  you  dislike  to  rest  in  this  hut  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night,  I  shall  get  you  sent  across  the  lough  to  the  care  of  my 
dragoons — what  say  you  ?” 

“I  fear  it  not,  sir  ;  I  will  rest  where  I  am  ;  but  I  thank  you. 
As  to  M’Donnell’s  whim — ” 

“  Hush  1”  interrupted  Sarsfield — “  all  mention  of  a  name, 
which  he  seems  anxious  to  have  forgotten,  is,  in  your  present 
situation,  dangerous.” 

“  I  care  not,  sir.  I  was  about  to  say,  that  whatever  may  be 
the  supposed  ground  of  his  hostility  to  me,  I  am  ignorant  of  it, 
and  also  assured  of  its  cruelty  and  injustice.” 

“  Well,  well  ;  to-morrow  may  give  you  more  explanation. 
Good-night.  I  rest,  by  invitation,  in  the  interior  of  this  wild 
house — good-night.” 

In  a  few  moments  after  Sarsfield  had  finallv  withdrawn,  a 
number  of  women,  old  and  young,  entered  the  hut,  bearing  in 
their  arms  bundles  of  heath  and  rushes,  and  proceeded  to  arrange 
couches  round  the  sides  of  the  outer  apartment.  Two  of  them, 
muffled  in  the  deep-hooded,  old  Irish  mantle,  officiated  as  Evelyn’s 
chambermaids.  For  some  time  he  saw  nothing  of  the  features 
of  either  ;  but  towards  the  conclusion  of  their  hasty  work,  the 
hood  of  one  fell  back,  and  showed  him  a  visage  he  had  cause  to 
know  well — that  of  Moya  Laherty.  He  started,  and  almost 
cried  out.  Moya  quickly  pulled  up  her  hood,  and  flew  out  of 
the  hut.  The  other  woman  cautiously  glancing  round,  came 
close,  and  he  knew  Onagh.  With  more  meaning  and  quietness 
of  manner  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  evince,  she  pressed  her 
finger  on  her  lip  and  whispering,  “  Be  prudent,  and  you  have  a 
friend,”  followed  her  companion. 

It  was  now  daydawn.  The  Bapparees  and  the  dragoons 
around  him  settled  themselves  to  take  a  few  hours’  sleep.  Eve¬ 
lyn  also  lay  on  his  fresh  heather,  but  not  for  repose.  Of  the 
present  fate  of  Eva  he  at  last  felt  certain.  Even  supposing 
Moya  Laherty’s  story  of  her  having  been  carried  off  by  Kirke 
from  Glenarriff,  as  wholly  untrue — (and  after  the  proofs  he  had 
got  of  the  girl’s  wilful  falsehoods  in  other  respects,  little  credit 
could  be  attached  to  her  in  this) — still  was  Eva  so  degraded  by 
her  former  and  present  associations  and  acts,  that  she  could  no 
longer  be  thought  of  with  any  feeling  but  one  of  pity  and  sorrow 

22 


506 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


ful  regret.  The  mystery  of  her  sudden  departure,  alone  and 
unprotected,  from  Dublin,  on  the  night  of  its  evacuation  by  the 
Irish,  was  now  explained.  Her  rapid  and  alarming  change  of 
character,  upon  the  first  occasion  he  had  seen  her  in  Dublin 
Castle,  from  the  fascinating  maid  of  honor,  into  the  disguised 
rider  who  had  passed  him  at  Essex-gate,  also  seemed  fully 
accounted  for.  Upon  the  news  of  the  landing  of  William,  she 
had  hastened  to  join  her  Rapparee  brother  at  the  Boyne  ;  and 
Evelyn  could  not  doubt  that  her  attendance  upon  the  Lady 
Lieutenant  was  artfully  contrived  by  Edmund  and  herself  in 
furtherance  of  some  private  views.  Then,  the  warmth  with 
which  she  had  chidden  James  for  deserting  the  field  of  battle, 
seemed  naturally  to  spring  from  a  person  who  had  been  an  actual 
spectator  of  the  struggle,  and  who  had  arrived  from  the  ground, 
perhaps  at  the  same  moment  with  himself,  agitated  by  fresh  and 
glowing  recollections,  and  by  all  the  indignant  sentiments  they 
would  call  up  in  such  a  bosom  as  Eva’s.  In  a  word,  it  was  now 
made  certain  to  Evelyn,  that,  from  the  moment  their  house  had 
been  burnt,  and  their  father  murdered,  M’Donnell  and  his  im¬ 
petuous  sister  had  abandoned  themselves  to  a  desperate  course 
of  arbitrary  revenge. 

As  to  the  hostility  manifested  by  Edmund  towards  him,  he 
regarded  it  as  nothing  more  than  affectation,  adopted  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  up,  between  them  and  him,  an  eternal  sepa¬ 
ration,  which  they  had  at  first  wantonly  caused,  and  for  which 
their  hearts  told  them  there  was  now  an  insuperable  neces¬ 
sity. 

Bodily  fatigue  beguiled  him  from  distressing  reflections  into  a 
sound  sleep,  from  which  he  did  not  awake  until  roused  by  Sars- 
field,  at  rather  an  advanced  hour  in  the  morning.  Starting  up, 
he  saw  the  hut  deserted  by  the  Rapparees,  while  a  loud  noise  of 
bustle  reached  him  from  abroad. 

“  If  you  are  willing  to  try  your  chance  for  a  further  satisfac¬ 
tion  of  your  own  affairs,  by  following  me  in  my  route,  arise, 
break  your  fast,  and  prepare  to  start  into  the  mountains,”  said 
the  general. 

Evelyn  thanked  him  ;  not  presuming  to  ask  a  word  concerning 
Sarsfield’s  expedition,  although,  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  consider 
any  thing  apart  from  his  private  concerns,  it  deeply  interested  him. 
They  partook  of  some  coarse  food  together  ;  and  accompanied 
by  Hogan  and  Rory-na-choppel,  crossed  the  lough  to  join  the 
main  body  of  dragoons. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


507 


Arrived  amongst  them,  they  found  a  great  uproar.  The  men 
stated  that  their  horses  had  been  allowed  to  stray  away  over¬ 
night,  and  were  now  not  at  hand. 

“  Is  that  all  ?"  asked  Hogan  ;  “  here's  one  to  remedy  the  evil. 
To  work,  Rory." 

“  Musha,  yes,  then,  wid  the  little  janious  God  ga'  me  and 
off  he  rapidly  shuffled,  disappearing  over  some  near  eminences. 

In  a  few  moments  the  Whisperer  was  seen  coming  back,  lead¬ 
ing  by  their  bridles  or  halters,  a  crowd  of  the  dragoons'  horses, 
while  more  followed  in  the  rear,  without  any  compulsion. 

“  An'  ye  can  thry  wid  them  for  a  start,  till  we  go  a  bit  far¬ 
ther  aff,"  he  said,  giving  up  his  prisoners,  and  again  disappearing, 
only  again  to  return  with  more.  Until,  after  repeated  sallies, 
every  dragoon  again  possessed  his  steed,  and  with  Sarsfield  at 
their  head,  and  still  guided  by  Hogan,  all  were  ready  to  move 
forward. 

“  Your  general  certainly  follows  with  his  force  ?''  asked  Sars¬ 
field  of  Hogan,  as  they  got  into  motion. 

“  As  sure  as  Keeper  Hill,  that  you  now  see  before  you,  gen¬ 
eral,  so  remarkable  in  size  and  consideration,  over  the  surrounding 
hills.  Somewhat  like  a  man  of  great  natural  stature  at  the  head 
of  a  crowd  of  less  favored  comrades." 

After  about  a  mile's  journeying,  the  objects  Hogan  had,  with 
some  self-complacency,  in  his  illustration,  been  describing,  more 
fully  confronted  Evelyn.  The  party  had  ascended  and  descended 
over  many  successive  eminences,  and  deviating  from  their  last 
available  strip  of  road,  now  really  approached  the  mountains. 
To  their  left  rose,  indeed,  the  great  Keeper  Hill,  aptly  called, 
whether  through  chance  or  design,  the  giant  of  his  range  ;  black, 
barren,  and  desolate.  A  vast  mass,  showing  rather  bold  round¬ 
ness,  than  picturesque  grandeur  of  form  ;  with  no  white  or  gray 
rocks,  or  patches  of  green,  breaking  the  sombre  monotony  of  his 
heathery  mantle  ;  and  altogether  filling  and  oppressing  the  mind 
with  an  idea  of  terrible  loneliness.  Opposite  to  him  was  his 
sole  near  rival — a  rival  in  contrasted  shape  only — Glancoolla 
Mountain,  with  steep,  craggy  sides,  its  outline  sharp  and  varied, 
while  that  of  Keeper  was  round  and  full.  But  although  a  more 
beautiful  object,  and,  withal,  a  stupendous  one,  yielding  in  im¬ 
posing  effect  to  its  uncouth  and  frowning  opponent. 

Behind  Keeper  rose  the  black  heads  of  other  hills  of  the  re¬ 
ceding  range  ;  hill  after  hill,  at  different  distances.  Between 
him  and  Glancoolla,  sweeping  to  the  left  of  the  party,  was  the 


508 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


desolate  Talley  through  which  they  were  to  pursue  their 
course. 

Although  somewhat  acquainted  with  mountain  scenery,  per¬ 
haps  on  a  larger  scale  than  even  what  now  lay  before  him,  Eve¬ 
lyn’s  first  impression  on  glancing  along  those  bleak  and  inhospi¬ 
table  hill-sides,  and  on  seeing  peak  after  peak  rise  up  in  the  only 
direction  he  had  to  go,  was  one  of  instinctive  shrinking,  if  not 
of  terror.  And  the  faces  of  the  dragoons  around  seemed  to 
sympathize  with  him.  But  he  was  allowed  little  time  to  com¬ 
bat  such  vain  feelings.  The  galloping  Rapparee  plunged  boldly 
from  the  last  road-track  to  be  found  in  this  uninhabited  district, 
upon  the  soft  and  pathless  sward,  that  henceforth  was  to  be  their 
only  footing.  Onward  the  numerous  party  moved,  slowly,  and 
in  silence  as  deep  as  that  of  the  desert  they  explored 

Immediate  dispatch  did  not  seem  the  object  of  Sarsfield.  On 
the  contrary,  from  what  Evelyn  could  casually  collect,  the  gen¬ 
eral  rather  appeared  to  linger  on  the  way,  so  as  not  to  reach  a 
certain  point  until  evening.  Tardily,  therefore,  notwithstanding 
the  expostulations  of  Hogan,  was  the  wild  way  pursued,  until, 
after  getting  imperceptibly  at  the  other  side  of  Keeper  Hill, 
Hogan,  turning  in  his  saddle,  pointed  out  to  Sarsfield  the  Rap- 
parecs,  headed  by  Edmund  M’Donnell,  following  at  a  distance 
in  their  track.  Evelyn,  also  turning,  saw,  upon  the  side  of  a 
mighty  hill,  a  small,  dark  mass,  scarcely  in  observable  motion, 
and  looking  rather  like  a  flock  of  birds,  than  a  body  of  men. 
Yet,  on  Hogan’s  assurances,  he  beheld  a  body  not  inferior  in 
number  to  Sarsfielcl’s  dragoons. 

On  he  winded,  with  his  companions,  through  valleys,  black, 
barren,  and  silent,  into  one  of  which,  particularized  by  Hogan, 
it  was  asserted  that  the  stars  or  moon  scarce  ever  sent  a  ray  to 
break  the  utter  blackness  of  night  in  its  pent-up  recesses.  On, 
over  mountain-stream  and  river,  sometimes  crossing,  twice  or 
thrice,  different  wild  windings  of  the  same  foamy  water.  On, 
over  rugged  defiles  and  torn  gullies;  now  along  the  bottom  of 
a  glen,  where  not  a  breath  of  air  was  felt,  and  now  by  the  ridge 
of  a  hill  where  the  wind  was  high  and  gusty.  Some  hours  after 
noon  they  halted,  and  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  their  solitude, 
to  eat  food  with  which  the  Rapparees  had  supplied  them,  and  to 
slake  their  thirst  at  the  mountain-stream.  To  horse  again.  And 
again  through  a  continuation,  little  varied,  of  the  same  kind  of 
scenery.  Until,  towards  evening,  when  beginning  to  descend  to 
their  left,  in  order  to  ford  a  considerable  stream,  they  at  last  got, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


505 

through  a  vista  in  the  mountains,  a  cheery,  though  distant 
glimpse  of  the  open  country,  bathed  in  the  rich  evening  sun¬ 
light  that  could  scarce  steal  one  blessed  ray  into  the  wilds  they 
had  been  travelling,  and  which  still  partially  encompassed  them. 

“We  are  near  upon  a  halt,  general,”  said  Hogan,  at  this 
point.  “  Under  us  winds  the  Belbow  River,  which  we  have 
twice  crossed  to-day.  And  on  the  top  of  the  ascent,  at  its 
other  side,  is  the  gap  that  will  lead  you  down  into  the  flat  coun¬ 
try,  and  so  on  to  Ballyneedy.  More  betoken,  you  can  get  a 
good  observation  across  to  that  point,  from  the  gap,  if,  as  1  take 
to  be  the  case,  you  have  come  provided  with  your  glass.” 

The  river  was  soon  crossed.  At  the  bottom  of  the  acclivity 
which  Hogan  described  as  rising  from  it  to  the  gap,  Sarsfield 
ordered  his  people  to  halt. 

“  Let  every  man  dismount,”  he  said,  “  and  ease  the  bit  and 
the  saddle  of  his  horse,  and  get  him  such  provender  as  the  hill¬ 
side  affords,  with  all  other  possible  refreshment,  for  some  hours. 
After  the  nightfall  there  will  be  work  in  hand.  But  now,  Cap¬ 
tain  Rapparee,”  taking  him  aside,  “  where  is  the  messenger  you 
promised  from  the  Cashel  road  ?” 

“  He  ought  to  have  met  us  here,  general  ;  and  had  we  sent 
one  of  our  own  reglars,  doubtless  there  could  not  be  a  disap¬ 
pointment,  even  for  a  moment.  But,  as  I  informed  you,  the 
enemy  has  of  late  grown  so  wary  of  us,  and  so  possessed  of  our 
feints  and  subtle  practices,  that  we  feared  to  dispatch  any  but  a 
poor  wandering  blind  man,  whose  simplicity  none  mi^ht  suspect, 
but  who  is  still  a  real  friend  of  our  general.” 

“A  blind  man  to  look  out,  sir  1”  said  Sarsfield. 

“Marvel  not,  sir,”  replied  Hogan,  “he  has  a  leader  that  will 
help  him — an  own  son  of  Quartermaster  Rory-na-choppel.  And, 
though  rather  behindhand,  here  they  come,  together.” 

Evelyn,  quickly  turning  his  eyes  up  to  the  top  of  the  ascent, 
saw,  just  issuing  over  its  line,  his  old  friend  Carolan,  led  by  the 
imp  whom  we  have  first  beheld  trotting  after  the  heels  of  the 
Whisperer,  upon  the  memorable  morning  when  Edmund  McDon¬ 
nell  purchased  his  own  colt  from  one  of  the  agents  of  that  re¬ 
spectable  dealer. 

“  Let  us  meet  him  on  the  rise,”  continued  Sarsfield.  Then 
turning  to  his  people  :  “  No  man  shall  mount  this  hill  after  us, 
nor  in  any  way  expose  himself  to  observation  from  the  open 
country.  Come,  Captain  Hogan.  Choose  you  to  enjoy  a 
pleasing  prospect,  Mr.  Evelyn  ?” 


510 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Very  anxious  to  have  speech  of  the  harper,  Evelyn  readily  as- 
sented.  Sarsfield,  Hogan,  and  he  met  Carolan  a  little  under 
the  top  of  the  gap. 

“  God  save  ye,”  cried  the  blind  man,  as  they  came  up. 

“  God  save  you,  kindly,”  answered  Hogan. 

“  That  will  do,”  resumed  Carolan,  “  I  know  you.” 

“  Well,  any  tidings  from  the  road  ?” 

“  Yes  ;  approaching  them  for  food  and  alms,  I  spoke  with 
them,  last  night,  on  their  way  to  Cullen.  They  will  halt,  as  we 
suspected,  over  against  you,  at  Ballyneedy,  this  night.” 

“  How  many  of  ’em  ?” 

“  A  good  number  of  horse.  But,  have  a  care.  Though  they 
have  no  wind  of  your  intentions,  I  will  not  say  as  much  for  some 
in  the  camp  at  Limerick.  If  the  great  Sarsfield  is  here,  tell 
him  so.” 

“  Say  you  so  ?”  asked  the  person  alluded  to. 

“I  do,  sir  ;  and  my  humble  duty  to  you,  noble  general,”  an¬ 
swered  the  harper,  his  face  glowing. 

Sarsfield  paused  a  moment,  then  resumed  : 

“Well  ;  think  you  they  will  soon  come  up,  good  Carolan? 
’Tis  now  past  six  of  the  clock,  and,  on  such  a  service,  they  should 
be  near  their  halt  for  the  night.” 

“  They  cannot  be  far  off,  sir.” 

“  Let  us  look  out  for  them,  theiv  Come,  Mr.  Evelyn.” 

As  they  left  him,  Carolan  sat  down  on  the  shelving  hill ;  his 
guide  creeping  down  to  the  dragoons. 

“We  should  be  cautious  here,  gentlemen,”  continued  Sars¬ 
field,  ere  they  had  quite  gained  the  opening  into  the  distant 
country.  “  I  pray  you  do  as  I  do  ;  the  slanting  sun  shines 
brightly,  and  his  beams  flashing  from  steel-cap  or  breast-piece, 
may  be  caught  and  interpreted,  by  experienced  eyes,  at  a  fair 
distance.”  He  doffed  the  warlike  articles  of  which  he  had  made 
mention  ;  hid  them  in  the  heather,  and,  advancing  up  the  ascent 
in  a  bent  posture,  lay  on  his  breast,  as  soon  as  his  eyes  came  on 
a  level  with  the  line  of  the  gap  ;  Evelyn  and  Hogan,  as  they  had 
been  commanded,  imitating  his  actions. 

They  had  scarce  cast  their  eyes  abroad,  when  Sarsfield  mut¬ 
tered,  “The  harper  is  right ;  I  see  them.” 

It  was  the  last  brilliant  half-hour  of  a  rich  August  evening. 
They  looked  westward,  over  a  gradually  falling  country,  bounded 
by  the  distant  Galteigh  mountains,  at  whose  back  the  sun  was 
about  to  set,  amid  a  glorious  confusion  of  gold  and  scarlet  clouds, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


511 


go  that  every  picturesque  peak  and  curve  of  the  imposing  group, 
cut  sharply  against  so  vivid  a  background.  Almost  immediately 
opposite  to  the  Galteighs,  and  rather  to  the  left  of  our  friends, 
ran  the  nearer  Llieve  Iellum  hills,  rising  and  receding,  one  above 
another,  the  Keeper  still  prominent  at  the  western  extremity  of 
his  line,  and  a  hill  next  to  him  in  magnitude,  and  called  Maugher- 
na-Llayd ,  or  the  “  Mother  of  the  Mountains,”  rising  about  the 
middle  of  the  range.  Thence,  towards  the  west,  the  land  gradu¬ 
ally  fell,  broken  by  little  inequalities,  and  relieved  by  some  near 
hills.  Directly  facing  the  gap  ( which  has  been  called  from  Sars- 
field’s  coming  exploit,  Lac/cen-na-choppel,  or  “  the  hill  of  the 
horses”)  stood,  upon  an  abrupt  eminence,  at  about  the  distance 
of  five  miles  in  a  straight  line,  the  ruined  castle  of  Ballyneedy, 
backed  by  the  Galteighs.  Towards  this  castle,  regardless  ot 
every  other  feature  of  the  scene,  the  general’s  anxious  glances 
were  directed. 

“  I  see  them,”  he  repeated,  “  even  with  the  naked  eye.  Mark 
how  plainly  their  caps  and  swords  gleam  in  the  sunshine  (proving 
our  precaution  here  a  good  one),  as  they  wind  over  yonder  ascent, 
towards  the  castle.” 

“  That  ascent  is  called  the  Hill  of  Cullen,”  observed  Hogan, 
“lying  between  Cullen  village  and  Ballyneedy.  Now  for  a 
closer  observation,”  taking  out,  as  Sarsfield  also  used  his  glass,  a 
telescope  that  Evelyn  recognized  as  having  once  been  his  own 
property.  “  Ay,  there  they  are  ;  some  troops  of  Yillier’s  horse, 
sure  enough ;  their  gun-carriages,  ammunition  wagons,  and  pro¬ 
vision  carts  covering  the  whole  height,  and  going  off  behind  it. 
They  halt  now,  to  encamp.  No.  It’s  only  the  rear  has  halted 
to  post  a  sentinel,  I  think.  Yes,  now  the  man  is  left  alone,  and 
they  move  down  the  hill  to  Ballyneedy.” 

“  There  will  be  another  sentinel  at  the  ford  of  Bally  vsenouge, 
outside  Cullen,”  continued  Hogan,  after  a  pause,  “  and  another, 
if  not  a  regular  picket,  in  the  village  itself.” 

A  considerable  silence  ensued,  Sarsfield  not  uttering  a  word  ; 
but — his  brows  knitted  into  an  earnest  frown — keeping  the  dis¬ 
tant  foe  covered  with  his  glass,  measuring  and  dwelling  on  them, 
as  the  wild  beast  might  glare,  unseen,  upon  the  prey  he  devotes  to 
destruction. 

At  length,  without  removing  his  glass,  “  Ay,”  he  said,  abruptly, 
as  if  only  speaking  to  himself,  “  yonder  are  the  guns  with  which 
William  reckons  to  batter  down  the  old  walls  of  Limerick  about 
our  ears.  But  stone  of  Limerick  wall  they  shall  never  splinter.” 


512 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Another  long  pause,  which  Hogan  broke.  “  They  now  wind 
along  the  side  of  Bally  needy  Hill,  I  believe,  general,”  he  said  ; 
“  yes,  and  now  they  collect  their  heavy  train,  some  little  distance 
under  the  castle,  and  like  a  prudent  escort,  settle  themselves 
round  it.  While  a  few — their  officers,  I  reckon — walk  up  to 
rest,  for  the  night,  in  the  ould  ruin.” 

“  Ay,  for  the  night  and  the  day,  too,  good  Captain  Rapparee,” 
coolly  muttered  Sarsfield,  still  only  thinking  out,  although  he 
seemed  to  address  himself  to  Hogan.  “  But  my  glass  serves 
no  longer.  The  sun  is  down  behind  Galteigh-More  ;  and  it 
darkens  rather  much  for  an  observation  of  five  miles  across.  And 
yet  not  dark  enough  to  be  doing.  Hark  !  this  bustle  below  an¬ 
nounces,  I  suppose,  the  coming  up  of  your  commander.” 

Hogan  assented,  and  went  down  the  steep  to  greet  his  gen¬ 
eral.  Sarsfield  sat  up,  where  he  had  hitherto  lain  prostrate,  and 
still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Ballyneedy.  Evelyn  could  see  him 
sometimes  frown  with  impatience,  sometimes  smile  sternly,  as, 
doubtless,  the  picture  of  anticipated  triumph  rose  vividly  to  his 
imagination. 

“  How  tediously  the  night  comes  on !”  he  said  ;  “  we  wanted 
not  so  dainty  an  evening.  Tempest-clouds  that  would,  before 
this  hour,  have  blotted  out  the  gaudy  sun,  were  better  for  our 
purpose.” 

Just  then,  the  little  encampment  on  Ballyneedy  began  to  light 
their  watch-fires.  And  as,  one  by  one,  the  red  beams  twinkled 
over  the  bosom  of  the  distant  ascent,  and  at  the  base  of  the  old 
castle — fixing,  by  contrast,  the  character  of  night  around  them 
— Sarsfield  seemed  more  content. 

Soon,  and  he  started  to  his  feet.  Hogan  reapproached  him. 
He  called  to  the  Rapparee  for  his  cap  and  breast-piece.  He 
donned  them  rapidly.  Evelyn  could  see  him  pale  with  the  anx¬ 
iety  and  depth  of  his  purpose. 

“  Lead  up  my  dragoons,”  he  cried.  They  surrounded  him  in 
a  few  minutes,  ready  mounted.  He  vaulted  into  his  own  saddle. 

“  I  rely  on  your  general  to  move  down,  and  cover  my  retreat, 
at  the  proper  signal,”  he  continued. 

“  He  faithfully  promises,”  answered  Hogan. 

“  Well,  you  guide  us,  still.” 

“  Himself,  an’  another,  that’s  handy,  accordin’  to  the  little 
janious  the  Lord  gave  him,”  answered  the  Whisperer,  advancing, 
most  awkwardly  seated  on  a  tall  garrou,  to  Hogan’s  side. 

“  Lead  on  then  the  two  Rapparees  rode  out  of  the  gap. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


513 


44  Lucan  men,  forward  !  Forward,  to  an  action  of  some  pith. 
Prove  me  your  mettle,  now,  and  Ireland  shall  speak  of  us  ! 
Ride — for  our  king  and  our  couutry  !  But  hush  !  no  shouting 
yet — follow  me,  in  silence.” 

He  led  them  through  the  gap  towards  the  open  country,  and 
Evelyn  was  left  alone  on  the  top  of  the  ascent.  After  some 
time,  a  man  approached  him,  slowly  and  cautiously.  In  the  al¬ 
most  matured  shadows  of  night,  Evelyn  could  only  distinguish 
a  human  figure.  It  labored  up  the  ascent,  pausing  at  every  step. 
Arrived  at  the  gap,  it  stood  erect  and  still  ;  and  then  a  well- 
known  voice  spoke. 

44  Ay,  they  are  gone  to  their  work.  How  lonesome  the  silence 
is  I  Ah,”  sighing  deeply,  44  eyes  would  be  the  greatest  of  God’s 
blessings,  now,  to  see  the  terrible  ending  of  it.  Is  there  any  one 
here,  with  me  ?” 

44  Carolan — dear  Carolan  !”  cried  Evelyn,  approaching. 

44  Sir  !  sir  1”  exclaimed  the  blind  man,  in  mingled  surprise  and 
coldness — 44 1  did  not  think  to  hear  you  answer  :  and  now,  the 
sooner  we  part,  the  better.” 

44  Why  ?”  asked  Evelyn  ;  44  how  have  1  lost  your  friendship  ?” 

44  Shame  upon  the  question,  sir  ;  ask  your  heart.” 

“  Heavens  1  what  can  be  the  import  of  all  this  ?  You,  at 
least,  Carolan,  are  not  whimsical,  and,  without  a  reason,  cruel — 
answer  me,  then  1  In  what  way  do  you  suppose  I  have  been 
unworthy  ? 

44  Oh,  Mr.  Evelyn,  can  I  believe  my  ears  to  hear  you  speak 
these  words,  that  only  make  you  guilty,  over  and  over,  of  a 
double  treachery  ?” 

44  Mau !”  cried  Evelyn,  “have  a  care  what  you  say — yet,  no — 
you  must  be  sincere  in  whatever  you  say.  Forgive  my  warmth, 
and  only  answer  in  pity  and  mercy,  the  question  I  have  put. 
Tell  me,  in  a  word,  how  have  I  fallen  in  your  good  opinion  ?” 

44  Oh,  sir,  how,  but  by  leaving  to  sorrow  and  ruin  the  friends 
of  my  heart — by  bringing  down  the  last  desolation  on  her  who” — 
he  clasped  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  turned  upward — 44  who  is  the 
best  angel  out  of  heaven’s  house,  this  night.” 

44  Monstrous  1” — retorted  Evelyn — 44  explain  this,  Carolan — 
here  is  some  mistake  inconceivable  to  me — what !  I  injure — I 
distress  her  ! — Carolan,  hearken  to  me.  It  is  they  have  wronged 
me,  and  plunged  themselves  into  ruin.  It  is  they  have  made  me 
the  most  sorrowful  and  desolate  man  that  walks  the  earth.  Dear 
Carolan,  I  am  belied  and  abused  together  1” 

22* 


514 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Master  Evelyn,  do  not  say  it — for  you  cannot  impose  it  <m 
me — I  have  heard  the  proof — •” 

“Of  what  ? — what  proof? — speak  out !” 

“  And  mean  you,  indeed,  to  deny,  sir,”  continued  Carolan, 
something  affected  by  Evelyn’s  impetuosity — ■“  mean  you  to 
deny — ” 

“  Peace,  Carolan,”  interrupted  Edmund  M’Donnell,  who,  for 
4ome  time,  had  listened,  unseen,  to  the  conversation.  The  tones 
of  his  voice  were  deep  but  tranquil,  mild  though  commanding — 
“ 1  learned  you  were  near  Master  Evelyn — I  feared  you  might 
meet  him,  and  that  your  soft  nature  would  condescend  to  an 
explanation,  one  word,  one  breath  of  which,  were  wrong  and 
insult  to  me.  Therefore,  I  am  here  to  request  your  further 
silence.  Nay,  your  company  down  the  hill — take  my  arm.” 

"  M’Donnell  1”  Evelyn  cried,  as  they  moved ;  Edmund 
slightly  started  ;  but,  recovering  himself,  continued  to  walk  away. 
A  second  time  his  old  friend  pronounced  the  name  he  had  been 
warned  not  to  sound  ;  still  no  notice  was  taken  ;  a  third  time — 
11  M’Donnell,  M’Donnell  1”  he  repeated  loudly.  At  last  Edmund 
stopped ;  parted  from  Carolan  ;  again  faced  towards  the  gap ; 
and  advancing  on  Evelyn  with  a  heavy  step — 

“  Sir,”  he  began,  in  a  low,  measured  voice  that  half  hissed 
through  his  teeth — “  I  come  back,  not  in  answer  to  the  name 
you  call  me  by,  but  the  rather  to  warn  you  what  I  will  believe 
you  do  not  know.  That  its  utterance,  among  these  hills — the 
utterance  of  a  name  now  lost — taken  from  me  by — no  matter 
by  what — is — death,  sir  1”  and  he  again  turned  his  back  on 
Evelyn. 

“  1  fear  not  your  threat — I  fear  the  threat  of  none — I  fear 
nothing,”  resumed  his  friend.  “  And  I  still  call  upon  you  to 
explain  your  ungenerous — your  cruel,  unjust  conduct — I  call  on 
you — ” 

“  Master  Evelyn,”  interrupted  M’Donnell,  a  second  time 
checking  his  steps,  “let  us  part  in  peace.  Offer  no  further  insult 
to  me.  I  cannot  resent  it  now,  or  in  future,  no  more  than  I 
could  your  former  outrage.  There  is  a  cause  ;  you  know  there 
is  a  cause  ;”  and  his  voice  half  faltered. 

“By  my  hopes  of  heaven,  Edmund — by  the  soul  and  memory 
of  her,  to  whom  your  allusion  points — ” 

“  Peace,  sir ;  we  have  witnessed  this  before.” 

“  You  shall  hear  me,  Edmund  ;  and,  if  you  are  a  man,  answer. 
Let  me  try  to  shape  properly  the  questions  that  must  lead  to  the 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


515 


#hole  clearing  up  of  this  black  mystery — one  moment,  I  entreat 
four  pause— only  one  moment.  How  did  you  escape  from  Kirke, 
at  Glenarriff  ?” 

M’Donnell  sneeringly  laughed,  “  And  do  you  begin  by  asking 
that,  Master  Evelyn  ?”  he  demanded. 

“  Why  should  I  not  ?  Was  there  a  re-enforcement  of  you. 
friends,  after  Kirke’s  came  up,  and — ” 

“  Pshaw,  sir,  for  what  a  fool  do  you  take  me  ?  know  you  not, 
as  well  as  I,  there  was  ?  Tush,  tush,  to  what  a  man  am  I  talk¬ 
ing  V* 

“  Then  Eva  fell  not,  indeed,  into  his — ” 

“  His  hands  !”  interrupted  Edmund,  surprised,  in  a  degree,  out 
of  his  stern  calmness,  “  the  tainted  villain  !  Not  while  a  brother, 
at  the  least,  stood  by  to  hinder  it.  His  hands  !  I  tore  her 
from  the  blasted  wretch  upon  the  threshold  ;  for,  when  in  a  few 
minutes  I  was  enabled  to  return  with  a  good  force,  he  had  not 
left  my  father’s  roof.  My  point  pressed  him  beyond  the  thresh¬ 
old  ;  he  fled  from  me  down  the  glen,  after  his  scattered  plun¬ 
derers.  I  had  no  horse  at  hand,  but  I  followed  him  on  foot  and 
alone,  to  the  turn  on  the  shore,  and  thrice  was  my  highland  blade 
within  a  thrust  of  his  heart,  until  I  slipped,  and — but  shame  upon 
me,  I  say,  to  forget  the  very  caution  I  would  have  taught  yon 
poor  blind  man — shame  upon  my  truant  tongue  and  my  fickle 
spirit — I  am  again  dishonored.” 

Evelyn  deeming  it  better  to  pursue  his  purpose  than  turn  aside 
from  it  to  challenge  words  like  these,  resumed,  in  an  agitated 
and  impressive  manner:  “Then,  Edmund,  I  have  for  your  present 
humor,  but  one  further  question.  However  you  wrongfully 
regard  me,  whatever  may  be  the  cause  of  your  error,  tell  me,  in 
the  name  of  old  times,  and  old  recollections,  what  you  propose 
for  Eva  ?” 

M’Donnell  again  started  ;  again  checked  himself ;  and  a  third 
time  turned  away. 

“  Tell  me,  I  conjure  you,”  continued  Evelyn,  “  how  soon  and 
in  what  manner — ” 

“  And  dare  you,”  still  interrupted  M’Donnell,  speaking  slowly, 
“  dare  you  now  make  one  inquiry  concerning  her — one  allusion  ? 
Do  you  not,  especially  in  your  present  situation,  dread  to  do  so  ? 
Has  she  not  long  ceased  to  be  aught  to  you,  man  ?” 

“  Alas  !  why  will  you  force  me  to  admit  it  ?  She  has,  Ed¬ 
mund — and  yet,  is  it  not  my  place  and  duty  to  urge  my  former 
question  ?  When,  oh  !  when,  M’Donnell,  will  you  separate  her 


516 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


from  the  present  courses — snatch  her  from  the  fate  that  ought, 
indeed,  to  afflict — shame  us  all  ?” 

“Tempt  me  not  too  far,  Master  Evelyn.  Still  I  try  to 
recollect  that  my  hand  should  not  be  against  you  ;  but  press 
me  not  so  hard.  Traitor  and  false  knave,  you  have  been 
enough — ” 

“  False  knave  !  beware  M’Donnell,  how,  in  my  despair  and 
affliction,  you  cause  me  to  forget — the  words  you  give  me  are 
falser  than  I — ” 

“  That  is  too  presumptuous — the  echoing  of  that  name,  and 
all” —  replied  Edmund,  still  rather  in  determination  than  impa¬ 
tience.  “  Begone,  knave  and  liar  ! — off — or  I  must  strike  you  to 
my  feet  !” 

He  drew  his  sword.  Evelyn,  following  his  example,  instantly 
closed  on  him.  As  their  weapons  clashed,  a  figure  that,  for 
some  minutes,  had  been  watching  them,  came  forward  and  sep¬ 
arated  the  unhappy  youths.  Carolan,  also,  drew  near. 

“  What  !  by  you,  wretched  creature  ?”  cried  M’Donnell. 

“  By  me,”  replied  Onagh,  still  evincing,  to  Evelyn,  the  same 
composed  manner  she  had  shown  in  the  island  hut  ;  “by  me, 
who  have  brought  sorrow  enough  on  you  both,  to  make  me  now 
try  to  keep  off  more,  that  ye  would  madly  bring  on  yourselves. 
For  mad  ye  are.  As  mad  as  I  have  been  ;  though  now  that 
curse  is  taken  away,  and  I  am  free  and  able  to  befriend  those  it 
was  my  doom  to  cross  with  early  affliction.  Hearken  to  me !” 
she  cried,  as  Edmund  hastened  to  interrupt  her. 

“You  have  not  seen  me  since  we  met  in  the  black  north  ;  but 
I  have  long  followed  you,  with  your  wild  women,  to  make 
amends  for  that  day.  I  knew  you  were  imposed  on  by  a  false 
friend  ;  not  by  him  that  stands  before  you,  and  who  never  de¬ 
served  the  name,  but  by  one  who  brought  you  the  stories, 
that  made  you  think  he  did.  Ay,  look  at  me — but  ’tis  truth. 
Knowing  this,  I  came  in  her  way,  made  her  think  well  of  me, 
tell  me,  with  her  own  lips,  her  plottings, and  her  lies  .to  you 
both — ” 

“Both  1  her  !”  cried  Evelyn  ;  “  it  was  a  woman,  then  ?  and 
that  woman — Moya  Laherty  ?” 

“  It  was,”  answered  Onagh. 

“  Pshaw  !”  said  M’Donnell,  “  I  want  not  to  hear  this.  But 
you,  woman,  hither  ;  and  speak  with  me.” 

“  And  I  am  on  the  right  ground  to  tell  you  the  story  you 
want  to  know,”  answered  Onagh,  getting  agitated.  “  For  this 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


517 


country,  Edmund  M’Donnell,  is  my  country ;  these  hills,  my 
hills  ;  and  it  was  here  that,  in  early  maidenhood,  I  met  your 
brother  Donald.” 

M’Donnell  drew  back  and  stared  upon  her. 

“  Look  on,”  she  resumed.  “  And  it  was  here  you  lost  him. 
Look  on,  I  say,  and  look  closer  ;  and  then  you  may  know  me 
better.” 

“Woman,”  cried  Edmund,  disturbed,  “I  know  you  not,  but 
for  the  mad  wretch  I  ever  knew  you.” 

“  You  saw  me,  then,  once,  and  more  than  once,  when  you 
used  to  come,  a  growing  boy,  to  shoot  the  hill-birds  here,  with 
him  that’s  gone.  Did  you  never  hear  him  tell  of  Grace — ” 

“  Grace  Nowlan  ?”  interrupted  M’Donnell,  slowly  advancing 
on  her — “  stand,  woman  ! — Master  Evelyn,  forget  our  quarrel 
but  a  moment,  and  help  me  to  secure  this  unhappy  creature — 
the  murderess  of  my  elder  brother  1” 

“Grace  Nowlan,  but  no  murderess!”  she  exclaimed,  rushing, 
in  spite  of  their  efforts,  through  the  gap,  and  again  relapsing 
into  her  real  or  affected  insanity  of  manner — “  but  we  cau  settle 
that  another  time — it  and  your  own  affairs  together — I  will  see 
ye  again  plunging  from  the  gap.  “  Now,  ye  have  other  things 
to  mind!”  clapping  her  hands.  “See  that  !  hear  that  !” 

A  sudden  glare  of  fiercest  light  that  seemed  to  set  the  firma¬ 
ment  in  a  blaze,  burst  all  over  the  distant  country  ;  and,  in  a 
few  seconds,  was  followed  by  an  explosion  so  tremendous,  that 
Evelyn  thought  that  the  mountain  upon  which  he  stood  quivered 
to  its  shock. 

“  She  speaks  true,  by  Heaven !”  exclaimed  M’Donnell,  u  the 
good  deed  is  done,  and  I  must  to  my  duty.”  He  blew  his  horn  ; 
his  wild  troop,  long  in  expectation  of  a  summons,  and  previously 
roused  by  the  shock,  were  in  a  few  minutes  around  him. 

“  Bear  the  harper  down,  and  keep  him  from  all  speech  with 
the  stranger  !”  he  only  waited  to  say,  to  some  few  who  were  to 
remain,  when  he  headed  the  Rapparees  through  the  gap.  On- 
vard  they  rushed  after  him,  like  a  whirlwind,  to  the  plain  ;  leav¬ 
ing  Evelyn  once  more  alone,  struck  to  the  soul,  from  various 
causes,  with  utter  consternation. 

The  incidents  that  produced  some  portion  of  his  feeling,  are 
to  be  accounted  for. 

Continuing  for  some  time,  rather  parallel  with  the  range  of  the 
Llieve  Iellum  mountains,  at  his  left,  when  he  first  swept  through 
Lacken-na-choppel,  Sarsfield  then  wheeled  to  his  right,  turning 


518 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


his  back  on  them,  and  his  face  to  the  Galteighs.  Held  on,  for 
some  miles,  over  partly  high  and  partly  low  ground  ;  again 
wheeled  to  his  right,  to  approach  the  village  of  Cullen  ;  gained 
a  view  of  the  little  ford  of  Ballyvsenougue  ;  there  observed  the 
sentinel  Hogan  had  foretold  ;  and  paused  to  consider  how  he 
should  prudently  overcome  this  obstacle. 

“  Let  Rory  go  ax  him  for  the  word — that’s  the  way  to  man¬ 
age  it,”  observed  Hogan.  Rory  smiled  hideously. 

“  Will  you  venture,  good-fellow  ?”  inquired  Sarsfield. 

“  Musha,  yes,  wid  the  Lord’s  help,  gineral,  honey.” 

“  Away,  then.” 

“Avoch,  ay,  afther  a  fashion  of  our  own,  an’  accordin’  to 
the  little  janious  God  gives  us.” 

He  dismounted  ;  drew  a  nail  from  his  pocket  ;  deliberately 
drove  it,  with  a  large  stone,  into  his  garron’s  hoof — Sarsfield 
turning  away  his  face — walked  him  a  step  or  two,  to  see  if  he 
was  lame  enough  ;  patted  him,  and  said  that  would  do  ;  pricked 
his  own  arm,  and  stained  himself  with  the  blood  ;  and  then 
limped  on,  with  his  horse,  towards  the  ford,  adding,  “  There, 
now.  Sure  we’re  jest  a  poor  loyal  man  an’  horse,  sarved  this  way 
by  the  Rapparees,  bad  end  to  ’em.” 

He  disappeared.  There  was  a  pause.  All  listened  for  a 
dying  groan — none  reached  them  ;  but  Rory  quickly  came  run¬ 
ning  back,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  simpering  exceedingly.  He 
whispered  Sarsfield. 

“  My  own  name  ?”  asked  the  general — “  they  need  not  have 
chosen  one  more  ominous — forward !” 

All  passed  the  ford.  The  sentinel  lay  lifeless  at  its  edge. 
Rory-na-Chopple  seemed  to  have  whispered  the  poor  fellow  to 
death,  so  silent  had  been  his  horrid  process,  whatever  it  was. 
They  cleared  the  village  of  Cullen  without  suspicion,  giving  the 
word  of  the  night,  thus  gained,  and  reporting  themselves  a  de¬ 
tachment  from  the  camp  of  Limerick.  They  swept  up  an  ascent 
from  it ;  found,  on  the  top  (called  Longstone,  because  the  road 
there  ran  over  a  rock),  another  sentinel — the  same  Sarsfield  had 
seen  posted  from  the  gap.  Him,  too,  they  passed  without  hin¬ 
drance.  Soon  they  came  in  sight  of  the  little  square  castle  of 
Ballyneedy,  perched  on  a  barren  level  of  a  few  yards,  upon  the 
height  that  gave  it  its  name,  while  all  over  the  road  that  ran  half¬ 
way  along  the  side  of  the  hill,  lay  the  train  of  guns,  wagons,  and 
carriages  of  various  kinds,  surrounded  by  their  numerous  escort, 
now — for  it  was  near  midnight — sleeping  away  the  fatigues  of  a 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


519 


ong  march  ;  their  watch-fires  flickering  out,  and  a  few  to  attend 
to  their  replenishing. 

When  his  prey  appeared  so  near,  Sarsfield  rode  his  last  half- 
mile  with  some  caution,  and  a  mustering  of  breath  and  purpose. 
Scarce  any  but  the  sentinel,  at  hand,  heard  his  approach.  As 
he  came  up,  the  first  of  his  party,  the  soldier  challenged  him  in 
alarm — “  The  word  ?” 

“Sarsfield is  the  Word,  and  Sarsfield  is  the  Man  !”  he 
was  answered.  And  upon  the  unprepared  escort,  Sarsfield  and 
his  Lucan  horse  instantly  plunged,  with  deafening  shouts.  In  a 
few  moments  they  had  not  an  enemy  to  contend  with  ;  those  who 
attempted  resistance,  or  who  would  not  yield  themselves  prisoners, 
were  cut  to  pieces.  So  much  done,  Sarsfield,  not  pausing  an 
instant,  caused  to  be  filled  with  powder  to  the  brim  the  whole 
of  the  battering  cannon  ;  then  stuck  them  in  the  earth,  muzzle 
downward  ;  surrounded  them  with  the  remainder  of  two  or 
three  hundred  barrels  of  powder  ;  heaped  over  and  around  them 
their  carriages,  the  baggage,  and  provision  carts,  and  without 
knowing  it,  several  chests  of  treasure  ;  laid  a  train  to  a  conven¬ 
ient  distance  ;  retired,  with  his  people  and  prisoners  ;  fired  the 
train  ;  and  blew  the  whole,  in  fragments,  into  the  air. 

This  was  the  explosion,  that,  five  miles  off,  in  a  direct  line, 
reached  Evelyn,  and  seemed  to  shake  the  solid  mass  beneath  his 
feet.  The  Llieve  Iellum  hills  glared  in  the  reflected  flash,  and 
reverberated  the  roar  through  their  deepest  recesses.  Even 
their  Foil-dhuiv  (black  glen)  was,  for  once,  illuminated  at  mid¬ 
night.  The  Galteighs,  remotely  opposite,  seemed  to  start  at 
the  blaze.  The  wild  deer,  in  the  glen  of  Aharla,  at  their  feet, 
bounded  from  their  dewy  heather-beds,  deeming  naught  less  than 
that  the  noonday  sun  had  burst  through  the  noon  at  night.  The 
old  castle  of  Ballyneedy  toppled  from  its  foundation-stone,  and 
rolled  in  fragments  down  the  slope.  And  what  is,  perhaps,  of 
more  importance,  Sir  John  Lanier,  on  his  way,  at  the  head  of 
five  hundred  horse,  to  join  the  escort  (after  tidings  of  Sarsfield’s 
sortie  had,  too  late,  reached  William),  was  still  far  distant  when 
he  felt  the  ground  quiver  to  the  explosion,  and  saw  the  red  glare 
in  the  sky.  Nay,  it  is  asserted  that  William  himself,  seated  ir 
his  Limerick  camp,  some  thirteen  miles  off,  heard  and  under 
stood  the  earthquake  shot. 


620 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

For  more  than  an  hour,  Evelyn  stood,  confounded  and  alone, 
on  the  gap  of  Lacken-na-choppel.  After  the  terrific,  and,  to 
him,  unexplained  commotion  and  glare,  he  heard,  for  some  time, 
the  receding  gallop  of  M’Donnell’s  wild  troop  into  the  low  coun¬ 
try.  Then,  all  was  silence.  He  looked  towards  Bally  needy : 
the  blank  of  deepest  night  alone  met  his  view.  The  explosion 
had  scattered  and  put  out  every  glimmer  of  the  watch-fires 
around  it.  Scarce  master  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  Evelyn 
was  not  aware  of  the  considerable  time  he  thus  spent  in  solitude, 
W'hen  the  distant  rushing  of  horsemen  again  caught  his  ear  from 
the  plain  below.  The  sound  increased*;  it  approached  him. 
Finally,  Sarsfield  galloped  up,  followed  by  his  people,  and  calling 
out,  “  Master  Evelyn  !” 

Evelyn  answered.  “We  have  done  it,  sir!’’  continued  Sars¬ 
field  ;  “you  saw  it — did  you  not  ?  But  now,  to  horse,  aud  with 
us  !  Home,  sir,  by  the  road  we  came — no  other  lies  open.  We 
are  set  upon,  or  will  be  ;  but  once  again  in  the  heart  of  the  black 
hills,  and  a  fair  good-night  to  them  1” 

Evelyn,  gaining  his  horse,  accompanied  him  about  a  mile,  into 
the  first  recesses  of  the  mountains.  The  whole  party,  together 
with  their  Rapparee  guides,  here  bivouacked  in  a  narrow  glen, 
unapproachable  at  such  an  hour  by  any,  save  those  well  acquaint¬ 
ed  with  its  dangerous  passes.  After  some  sleep,  they  proceeded, 
in  the  morning  light,  to  the  island  camp  ;  and  refreshments  and 
a  longer  rest  were  now  afforded  to  men  and  horses.  Again,  all 
got  into  motion.  As  Evelyn  was  about  to  mount,  a  man  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  Carolan. 

“  Step  aside,  sir,”  he  whispered  ;  “  I  believe,  after  all,  you  are 
wronged.  Your  words  to  me,  and  to  your  old  friend,  and  the 
sayings  of  that  poor  woman,  force  me  to  think  so.  But  hold  a 
good  heart.  Believing  this,  it  becomes  my  duty — the  greatest 
duty  of  my  life — to  see  you  righted — to  see  you  happy — to  make 
you  so.  And  why  ?  Because” — his  voice  trembled — “  because, 
Mr.  Evelyn,  the  happiness  of  her,  whose  humblest  servant  I  am, 
is  to  be  promoted  along  with  yours.  Say  nothing  now,”  as  Eve¬ 
lyn  offered  to  speak  ;  “  we  have  no  time  ;  but,  depend  on  me,  I 
will  seek  out  poor  Ouagh,  and  the  other  woman  she  told  of ;  I 
will  get  the  truth  from  both,  and — ” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


521 


u  Carolan  1”  iuterrupted  an  imperious  and  shrill  voice.  Evelyn 
turned,  and  saw,  approaching  with  Sarsfield,  from  the  edge  of 
the  little  lough,  the  apparition  that,  for  months,  had  scared  away 
his  peace,  wherever  he  moved.  But  as  the  harper  stepped  back, 
pressing  his  hand,  and  as  this  individual  hastily  drew  nearer, 
what  were  his  sensations  to  believe,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  now 
full  view  he  was  afforded,  that  he  did  not  look  upon  Eva 
M’Donnell  1  Astonishment,  confusion,  but,  most  of  all,  joy 
attended  the  discovery. 

“  Great  God  !  who  are  you  ?”  he  cried,  as  the  young  person 
confronted  him,  still  looking  very  like  Eva,  yet  still  showing,  at 
a  close  observation,  minute  details  of  feature  that  proclaimed  not 
only  a  distinct  identity,  but  a  different  sex. 

“  That  you  should  know,  sir,  and  that  you  shall  know,”  an¬ 
swered  the  youth,  angrily.  “  My  brother,  Edmund,  may  imagine 
causes  for  his  forbearance,  but — ” 

“  Your  brother  !”  interrupted  Evelyn,  calling  to  mind  the 
younger  brother,  of  whom  Eva  had  often  spoken,  as  residing  in 
Spain,  but,  during  their  last  allusions  to  him,  at  the  Gray  Man’s 
Path,  whom  she  had  reported  dead. 

u  He,”  continued  James  M’Donnell,  “  may,  if  he  like,  spare 
you  the  questioning  he  owes  you,  but  you  shall  stand  it  from  me. 
It  is  but  lately  I  was  allowed  the  information  that  gives  me  a 
right  to  address  myself  to  you  thus,  Master  Evelyn — it  is  but 
since  last  night  I  know  even  your  person.  Now,  however — ” 

As  he  advanced  very  close,  Carolan  broke  in  with  some  words 
that  exhorted  him  to  be  cautious.  While  many  scowling  Rap- 
parees,  left  along  with  the  stripling  to  occupy  the  island,  gath¬ 
ered  around,  Sarsfield  also  spoke,  effectually  putting  an  end  to 
the  matter. 

“  Mount,  Mr.  Evelyn,  and  ride  with  me  1  Men  1”  to  his  own 
troop,  “guard  your  prisoner!  Excuse  us,  Master  James 
M’Donnell ;  but  the  king’s  service  allows  no  such  delay  as  your 
private  business  would  propose — forward  !” 

The  Lucan  horse  surrounded  Evelyn,  and,  with  Sarsfield,  all 
moved  for  the  banks  of  the  Shannon. 

“We  speak  again,  sir !”  shouted  the  youth,  in  a  rage,  as 
Evelyn  was  thus  ravished  from  him. 

“  When  you  wish,”  replied  Evelyn  :  “  would  that  we  could 
now  speak  it  out !  You  will  find  me  in  Limerick — farewell !” 

Had  James  M’Donnell  held  at  his  disposal  the  force  with  which 
his  brother  was  absent,  covering  Sarsfield’s  retreat,  King  James’s 


522 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


soldiers  would  scarce  have  baffled  him.  But,  as  it  was,  he  durst 
offer  no  resistance.  Unobstructed,  therefore,  and  now  not  re¬ 
quiring  a  Rapparee  guide,  Sarsfield  soon  repassed  the  Shannon. 
Precisely  by  the  same  road  he  had  come,  he  regained,  in  a  few 
hours,  the  walls  of  Limerick,  where  joyous  shouts,  well  under¬ 
stood  in  the  hostile  camp,  greeted  the  tidings  of  his  brilliant  ad¬ 
venture. 

But  William  was  not  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose  even  by 
a  loss  and  a  disappointment  so  considerable  as  that  which  Sars 
field’s  adventure  entailed  upon  him.  To  the  surprise  and  alarm 
of  the  famishing  garrison,  he  still  kept  his  encampment  on  Sing- 
lands  ;  received,  in  a  short  time,  a  second  battering  train  from 
Waterford  ;  and  planted  it  on  a  height  called  Penny-well. 
While  the  soldiers  and  citizens  of  Limerick  sparingly  shared 
their  raw  beans — the  only  food  they  had — it  seemed  that  a  for¬ 
midable  breach  would  soon  be  made  in  the  bulwarks  of  Ireland’s 
strongest  citadel. 

While,  day  after  day,  the  battering  at  this  one  point  con¬ 
tinued,  the  garrison  made  a  desperate  midnight  sortie  upon  the 
besiegers.  Taken  by  surprise,  and  thrown  into  such  confu¬ 
sion  as  to  be  unable  to  discern  friend  from  foe,  they  attacked  each 
other  ;  and  (the  Irish  having  retreated  unperceived)  so  contin¬ 
ued,  until  the  morning  light  showed  them  their  mistake,  and  the 
shocking  havoc  that  resulted  from  it. 

At  last,  from  the  Penny-well  battery,  a  breach  about  twenty 
feet  wide  was  indeed  made.  Evelyn,  standing  along  with  Sars¬ 
field  upon  the  walls,  almost  over  it,  saw  all  the  grenadiers  in 
William’s  army  form  in  a  dense  and  threatening  mass  on  the  side 
of  the  descent  from  Cromwell’s  fort,  evidently  preparing  to  storm 
the  city.  The  whole  Danish  force,  and  some  English,  moved  to 
support  them,  at  the  left :  an  equal  number  of  Dutch,  Branden- 
bergiaus,  and  other  English  regiments,  slowly,  and  with  the  sol¬ 
dier’s  regular  movement,  took  their  right,  or  appeared  as  a  re¬ 
serve.  The  bellowing  of  the  cannon  at  Penny-well  ceased, — 
there  was  a  moment’s  pause.  As  Evelyn  stood,  Penny-well 
faced  him,  at  about  the  distance  of  half  a  mile,  and  William’s 
camp,  with  Cromwell’s  fort  in  front,  lay  to  his  right. 

There  was  a  moment’s  pause,  during  which  Evelyn  glanced 
along  the  walls,  and  behind  him,  into  the  city,  to  note  the 
preparations  made  for  the  welcoming  of  this  formidable  array. 
To  his  astonishment,  no  soldiers  manned  the  breach  ;  al¬ 
though,  at  either  side  of  it,  ranks  of  horse  and  foot  pressed 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


523 


tlose,  in  silence  and  inaction.  Immediately  facing  the  yawn 
in  the  wall,  some  guns  had  been  mounted,  on  a  hastily- 
constructed  battery  of  stones,  woolsacks,  earth,  and  timber. 
Beyond  this  battery,  in  the  street  that  turned  towards  Ball’s 
Bridge,  was  a  crowd  of  citizens,  men  and  women,  some 
rudely  armed,  some  defenceless  ;  but  all  determined,  and,  like 
the  soldiers,  all  silent.  Sarsfield,  alone,  seemed  the  waking  ge¬ 
nius  of  the  scene.  Evelyn  saw  him  pacing,  from  point  to  point, 
earnestly  impressing  his  commands.  He  would  stop,  and  some¬ 
times  rest  his  sword  across  his  arm,  sometimes  move  it  round  his 
head,  as  if  triumph  had  already  resulted  from  his  measures. 
Ever  aud  anon  he  sprang  to  the  wall,  took  a  view  of  the  ap¬ 
proaching  enemy,  and  then  hastened  down  to  complete  his  ar¬ 
rangements.  Such  were  the  only  visible  dispositions  to  receive 
the  assault,  within  the  city.  Without,  bodies  of  men  filled  the 
trenches  between  the  counterscarp  and  the  breach,  mostly  invisi¬ 
ble  to  the  enemy. 

As  Evelyn’s  eye  recurred  to  the  scene  abroad,  he  saw  that  the 
grenadiers  had  advanced  to  the  last  angle  of  their  own  trenches, 
supported  on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  and  by  a  reserve,  as  be¬ 
fore  described.  Three  field-pieces  were  discharged  at  Cromwell’s 
fort  :  this  was  the  signal  they  awaited.  They  leaped  their 
trenches,  and  ran  on  cheering  gallantly  to  the  counterscarp  ; 
their  right,  left,  and  reserve,  keeping  up  with  them.  Ere  they 
reached  the  counterscarp,  a  tremendous  fire  of  great  and  small 
shot  was  poured  upon  them,  from  the  curtain  of  wall  at  either 
side  of  Evelyn,  and  hundreds  fell  ;  the  cannon  making  lanes 
through  the  dense  bodies  of  grenadiers.  But  all  this  range  of 
battery,  being  in  a  direct  line  with  Cromwell’s  fort,  was  instantly 
enfiladed  from  it :  such  showers  of  balls  swept  along  the  top  of 
the  wall,  as  soon  promised  to  clear  it  of  its  garrison.  For  some 
time,  however,  the  Irish  returned  on  the  enemy  under  them  the 
salutes  received  from  their  right.  And  while  the  united  roar  of 
hostile  cannons  rent  the  sunny  autumn  sky,  the  walls  were  en¬ 
cumbered,  and  the  approach  to  the  breach  strewed  with  the  dead 
and  the  dying. 

The  mighty  interest  of  the  contest  had,  till  this  moment, 
kept  Evelyn  insensible  to  the  peril  of  his  situation.  With  his 
eye  fixed  on  the  approaching  grenadiers,  as,  each  moment,  the 
cloud  from  which  death  was  belched,  wafted  aside  and  left  them 
visible  ;  with  his  ears  dinned,  and  his  senses  confused  by  the 
uear  bellowing  of  the  guns  ;  with  his  young  and  ardent  spirit 


524 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


mixing,  too,  in  the -conflict;  he  had  no  time  to  reflect  that, 
standing  where  he  did,  he  was  only  a  spectator.  But  a  group 
of  those  who  worked  the  battery,  close  by  him,  were  now  tumbled 
from  the  walls  into  the  ditch  below,  and  he  awoke  to  the  sense 
of  his  danger.  At  the  same  moment  the  voice  of  Sarsfield  sound¬ 
ed  through  the  uproar  : 

“  Give  them  the  walls,  comrades  ;  give  them  the  walls  !  De¬ 
scend,  and  follow  me  where  we  can  fairly  meet  them  1” 

Doubly  warned,  Evelyn  hastened  down,  along  with  the  men 
thus  exhorted,  whom  Sarsfield  instantly  added  to  the  crouching 
force  already  stationed  at  either  side  of  the  breach.  All  grew 
silent  on  the  walls.  William  simultaneously  suspended  his  en¬ 
filading  fire  from  Cromwell’s  fort.  Even  abroad,  before  the  breach 
and  among  the  trenches,  there  ensued  a  silence  which  seemed  to 
argue  that  the  assailants  had  paused  to  muster  breath  for  a  sec¬ 
ond  effort,  now  unmolested  by  shot  from  the  city.  The  dead 
and  voiceless  inaction  grew  horrible.  The  clouds  of  smoke  that 
the  double  cannonading  had  congregated  over  the  town,  rolled 
from  it  towards  a  hill  some  miles  off.  An  unblotted  and  scorch¬ 
ing  sky  once  more  expanded  above  the  scene  of  havoc. 

“  Moxtha  musha,  thaun  galore ”  (full  time)  “  for  honest  bodies 
to  have  a  guard  o’  themsefs.  One  o’  them  balls  has  no  more  re¬ 
gard  for  a  poor  simple  boy,  sich  as  me,  nor  for  a  roarin’  mad 
sodger,”  said  a  voice  close  by  Evelyn.  He  turned,  and  knew  the 
Whisperer  ;  the  words  were,  indeed,  addressed  to  him  with  the 
familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance.  Rory  continued  :  “  Though 
I’m  no  great  things  to  brag  of,  makin’  a  noise  wid  your  guns,  or 
shkiverin’  wid  your  soords,  aften’s  the  time  we  can  do  a  sarvice. 
afther  a  manner  of  our  own,  an’  accordin’  to  the  little  janioui 
God  gave  us.  Keep  an  eye  upon  poor  Rory,  avich  ;  an’  if  h« 
doesn’t  show  you  some  spuddoch ”* —  simpering  with  his  usuaj 
graciousness,  till  a  score  of  cunning  wrinkles  diverged  from  the 
corners  of  his  eyes  downward,  and  met  as  many  branching  up¬ 
wards,  from  the  corners  of  his  spacious  mouth  ;  “  if  he  doesn’t 
show  you  a  flock  of  Sassenachs  nearer  to  heaven’s  gate  nor  they 
think  we  wish  to  send  ’em,  you  may  jest  call  me  muddhaun 
more, f  ’till  the  tongue  swells  in  your  cheek.”  And  he  shuffled 
off,  among  the  crowd  behind  the  masked  battery,  rubbing  his 
hands  in  ecstasy  over  his  embryo  project,  and  hanging  his  head 
more  than  usual  towards  the  side  to  which  it  curved. 


*  Sport. 


f  Big  fool 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


525 


Renewed  cheers  broke  from  the  assaulters  ;  the  explosions  of 
their  hand-grenades  were  heard  ;  and  then  the  dropping  fire 
from  the  Irish  who  lay  in  the  trenches,  answered  by  volleys  from 
William’s  right.  Field-pieces,  at  some  distance  to  the  left  of 
the  town,  also  joined  the  roar  ;  and  Evelyn  heard  Sarsfield  say  to 
Grace,  as  they  stood  close  by  the  breach,  mustering,  along  with 
their  men,  full  effort  for  a  planned  purpose  :  “  Our  little  battery, 
from  King’s  Island,  plays  merrily  on  their  right,  J ohn.” 

Shouts,  groans,  trampling,  the  discharge  of  musketry,  and  the 
explosion  of  hand-grenades,  all  formed  a  confused  din  without, 
but  Evelyn  could  see  nothing  of  what  passed  until  the  Irish  foot, 
posted  in  the  trenches,  jumped,  covered  with  blood,  in  confusion 
upon  the  breach — 

u  Where  now,  cowards  ?”  asked  Sarsfield,  in  a  vehement 
whisper. 

“  The  counterscarp  is  carried,”  answered  one,  who  seemed  an 
officer  ;  “  half  our  men  killed  in  the  trenches,  and — ” 

“In  then,  in!”  continued  Sarsfield.  The  defeated  trenchmen 
jumped  into  the  street  of  the  town,  and  looked  round,  in  panic, 
to  continue  their  retreat.  The  pikes  and  bayonets  at  either  side 
of  the  breach  opposed  them  ;  while  opposite,  the  groans  and  re- 
vilings  of  men  and  women  kept  them  stationary.  Under  Sars- 
field’s  command,  they  rallied,  and  joined  their  seemingly  inactive 
brethren.  While  in  the  very  act  of  doing  so,  the  shouts  of  the 
brave  English  grenadiers  burst  just  outside.  In  came  a  shower 
of  their  hand-grenades  ;  and,  almost  simultaneously  they  them¬ 
selves  sprang  into  the  breach.  A  murderous  volley  of  grape  in¬ 
stantly  saluted  them  from  the  masked  battery,  inside  the  walls. 
Another  ;  and  those  who  did  not  fall  dead  or  wounded,  jumped 
back.  Still,  Sarsfield  and  his  reserve  remained  quiet. 

Evelyn  stood  to  the  right  of  the  breach,  in  the  rear  of  the 
portion  of  the  reserve  there  posted,  a  crowd  of  citizens  around 
him  Mois  than  once,  while  the  contest  raged  without,  the 
Whisperer  passed  and  repassed  him,  adroitly  piercing  through 
the  throng  ;  looking  the  very  fiend  of  the  strife  ;  chuckling  over 
his  intended  mischief ;  and  ever  saying,  in  a  low  bland  tone,  as 
he  came  near  his  old  friend  : 

“  You’ll  soon  see  the  spuddoch,  a-chorra  machree  ;  you’ll  soon 
see  the  spuddoch .”  In  his  latest  transits  he  was  followed  by  a 
female  in  a  flowing  mantle,  who  seemed  a  confidant  in  his  plans, 
whatever  they  might  be.  Evelyn  once  heard  him  whisper  her, 
as  he  clapped  her  on  the  shoulder  :  “  Have  a  care  upon  you, 


520 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


a-lanna.  Don’t  let  sich  a  fine  spurt  as  God  is  sendin’  us,  be  for 
little  good.  Let  ’em  be  perched  as  thick  as  swarmin’  bees,  afore 
you  beckon.”  Immediately  upon  the  repulse  of  the  grenadiers, 
he  again  passed  to  some  distance,  with  a  lighted  match,  and 
seemed  to  make  certain  preparation,  of  which  Evelyn  could  not 
discern  the  meaning,  or  even  the  process.  Once  more,  as  he 
sidled  through  the  crowd,  in  increasing  glee — “  The  spuddoch  ’ill 
soon  be  now,  a-vich,”  he  said  ;  “  mind  the  pechauns*  that  ’ill 
come  getherin’  in  the  shky,  afther  awhile.” 

There  was  another  short  pause  in  the  conflict.  Then  another 
re-enforced  assault  from  the  grenadiers  ;  another  discharge  from 
the  battery  into  their  faces  ;  and  though  many  again  fell,  none 
flinched.  Down  from  the  breach  they  scrambled  and  jumped,  in 
hundreds,  into  the  town.  Ran  on,  seized  and  silenced  the 
masked  battery — cheered  in  the  reserve.  But,  now,  their  fate, 
and  the  fate  of  Limerick,  drew  near. 

“  Charge !  for  Limerick  !  for  Ireland  !”  roared  Sarsfield.  The 
ambushed  soldiers,  at  either  side,  instantly  filled  the  breach. 
They  met  the  reserve  with  the  shock  of  torrent  against  torrent. 
Madly  shouting,  half  their  force  repelled  them  beyond  the 
trenches,  abroad,  half  turned  upon  the  foe  cut  off  in  the  streets 
of  the  town.  Extermination  of  these  gallant  fellows  followed. 
To  a  man,  they  refused  to  give  or  take  quarter — to  a  man  they 
were  slain.  Assailed  by  the  soldiers  in  front,  and  by  the  people 
in  rear,  their  destruction  was  the  work  of  but  a  few  minutes. 
Even  the  women  of  Limerick  mixed  in  the  deadly  struggle. 
Many  a  beautiful  girl  and  staid  matron  rolled  among  the  dead  ; 
others  seized  the  arms  of  the  slaughtered  grenadiers,  or,  supplied 
with  sharp  stones  from  the  breach,  or  with  whatever  missile 
chance  afforded,  set  an  example  of  desperate  courage  to  their 
brothers,  lovers,  or  husbands.  And  while  a  furious  sortie,  head¬ 
ed  by  Sarsfield,  and  supported  by  a  gallant  Scotsman,  Wauhup, 
was  made  after  the  assailants,  the  crowd  of  women  swam  bled  to 
the  breach,  their  attire  rent  and  blood-stained,  their  hair  flow¬ 
ing,  and  there  brandishing  their  chance  weapons,  sent  a  frantic 
scream  of  triumph  and  defiance  after  their  discomfited  foe. 

In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  uproar,  slaughter,  and  horror, 
Evelyn’s  eye  was  attracted  by  a  woman  in  the  window  of  a  house 
next  to  him.  His  regards  fixed  on  her  face,  for  he  thought  he 
recognized  Onagh  of  Red  Bay.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  stick, 


*  Crows. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


527 


to  which  was  attached  a  torn  fragment  of  a  red  handkerchief ; 
her  look  was  fastened  on  a  certain  part  of  the  walls.  Evelyn 
glanced  in  the  same  direction.  He  saw  a  regiment,  which  lie 
knew,  by  the  uniform,  to  be  Brandenbergians,  gallantly  scaling 
the  Black  battery,  one  of  the  defences  near  the  breach.  At 
this  instant,  Sarsfield,  his  face  and  person  stained  with  blood  and 
dust,  sprang  back  into  the  town,  crying  out — 

“  Limerick  is  safe  !  They  fly  at  every  point !  To  the  walls, 
Irishmen,  and  give  them  a  farewell  greeting.  But,  hah  !  there 
be  some  saucy  fellows  before  us,”  his  eyes  catching  the  Branden¬ 
bergians. 

“  Lave  them  to  me,  gineral  honey,”  said  the  Whisperer,  from 
the  rathe  rremote  station  where  he  had  previously  been  making 
some  arrangements.  “  An’  stop  a  bit,  just  where  you  are,  for 
your  own  darlin’  sake.  Gossip,”  elevating  his  voice  to  Onagh, 
who  still  held  her  place  in  the  window,  “is  it  time  to  fly  my 
flock,  yet,  I  wondher  ?” 

There  was  a  cry  from  Onagh — she  dropped  her  flag — the 
whole  regiment  had  now  ascended  the  Black  battery.  Rory 
touched  the  ground  near  him  with  a  lighted  match.  A  train 
fizzed  towards  the  wall,  under  and  along  it,  till  it  reached  the 
tower  of  the  battery,  which  was  full  of  gunpowder,  and,  with  a 
horrid  explosion,  up  went  the  tower  in  fragments,  and  with  it 
the  fragments  of  hundreds  of  men.  And  this  Evelyn  now  com¬ 
prehended  to  be  the  “  spuddoch”  which  Master  Rory-na-chopple 
had  promised  him. 

Amid  deafening  shouts,  the  walls  were  again  manned.  With 
the  roar  of  triumph,  volleys  of  grape,  still  destructive,  reached 
the  flying  army.  Dalrymple  authorizes  the  statement  that  Wil¬ 
liam  lost,  this  day,  two  thousand  of  the  flower  of  his  soldiers. 
It  may  be  added  that,  under  all  the  circumstances,  unequal  in 
numbers,  undisciplined,  unsupported  by  regular  allies,  starving, 
and  against  the  terror  of  the  name  of  a  great  general — Limerick 
made  a  struggle,  and  accomplished  a  triumph,  not  unlike  or  in¬ 
ferior  to  the  struggle  and  triumph  which  has  since  immortalized 
the  walls  of  Saragossa. 

“  And  now,  sirs,”  said  King  William,  who,  like  James  at  the 
Boyne,  and  a  greater  man  than  either  at  Waterloo,  had  watched 
the  chances  of  the  day  from  the  height  of  Cromwell’s  fort,  and 
who,  immediately  after'  the  defeat,  collected  arouncf  him  his 
drooping  generals  and  followers — “  Now,  sirs,  I  am  for  EnglanI  ; 
perhaps,  for  the  Low  Countries.  Affairs  go  on  as  ill  there  aa 


528 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


here.  I  leave  you,  Solmes,  in  full  command  of  my  Irish  army  ; 
Ginkle  to  succeed  you,  whenever  it  may  be  needful  ;  with  my 
commands  to  both  to  finish  this  Irish  war  on  any  terms.” 

“  My  liege  1”  cried  many  voices,  amongst  which  were  those  of 
Colonel  Lloyd,  of  the  Enniskilleners,  and  Dr.  Dopping,  Bishop 
of  Meath.  “  Your  gracious  majesty  cannot  ask  us  to  consider 
a  foe  so  contemptible  and  pernicious,”  added  Colonel  Lloyd. 

“  I  came  into  Ireland,  too  much  depending  on  such  views,  sir,” 
answered  William,  sullenly  and  bitterly,  “for  the  which  I  was 
indebted  to  you  and  those  of  your  mind.  But  it  were  well  we 
all  brought  ourselves  to  regard,  more  calmly  and  truly,  the  ene¬ 
my  we  seek  to  understand,  as  well  as  subdue.  Listen,  then. 
Upon  the  first  attempt  for  my  crown,  in  Ireland,  this  contempt¬ 
ible  foe  beat  you — you,  the  Protestant  strength  of  Ireland — 
in  a  few  weeks,  out  of  eight  northern  counties.  Beat  you,  in 
four  battles,  one  at  Droughmore,  one  at  Hillsborough,  one  or 
the  banks  of  the  Bann,  and  one  at  Clady  Ford.  Reduced  yoi 
to  a  confused  remnant,  and  shut  you  up  between  the  four  walk 
of  Derry.  There  you  starved  truly  ;  more  because  you  dreaded 
the  consequences,  than  dared  the  principle  of  a  surrender.  Un¬ 
til,  at  last,  upon  the  very  threshold  of  a  treaty  with  Hamilton, 
you  were  saved — not  by  yourself,  or  aught  you  could  do — but 
by  a  few  English  regiments.  Against  this  contemptible  foe  I 
then  sent  twenty  thousand  English  and  foreigners,  headed  by  a 
great  general  ;  you  gave  them  and  him  your  help.  I  will  say 
little  of  his  gratitude  for  your  alliance,  or  his  testimony  of  your 
character.  Enough,  that  between  you  all,  you  were  out-ma¬ 
noeuvred,  cowed,  and  consigned  to  destruction  by  this  contemptible 
foe  ;  and  that  your  campaign  terminated  without  a  battle,  yet 
with  the  loss  of  half  my  army.  Mark,  still — I  came  among 
you,  in  person,  to  retrieve  the  disgraces  of  my  cause  and  my 
arms.  The  first  battle  with  this  insignificant  foe  was  twice 
nearly  lost.  Once,  Colonel  Enniskillener,  by  your  corps  desert 
ing  me,  in  the  second  charge  at  Sheephouse,  and  running,  mer¬ 
rily,  though  with  your  king  at  your  head,  from  the  face  of  this 
insignificant  foe.  Immediately  after,  a  handful  of  them  repulsed, 
with  some  loss,  ten  thousand  of  my  troops  at  Athlone.  This 
day,  they  have  repulsed  my  whole  army,  headed  by  myself,  and 
greatly  seconded  by  the  native  zeal  of  the  Enniskilleners.  “  Sirs,” 
he  continued,  more  than  usually  roused,  “  you  witness  the  first 
real  defeat,  except  one  in  my  youth,  at  Maestrieht,  which  I  have 
aver  suffered.  As  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  king,  Limerick  has  been 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


529 


bravely  defended.  And  yet  you  hear  it  stdd,  that  men  who  cm* 
so  demean  themselves,  merit  not  the  consideration  due  to  a  fair 
enemy.  Hearken  to  my  parting  ordern.  Finish,  I  repeat,  this 
Irish  war  upon  any  terms.  Should  the  future  give  you  a  prom¬ 
ising  advantage,  propose  then,  as  well  as  now,  full  protection 
in  property,  and  civil  privileges  with  religious  freedom.  If  the 
Irish  enemy  at  last  fall,  offer,  to  all  who  will  willingly  comply, 
place  and  rank  in  my  British  armies.  I  should  care  for  such 
soldiers  as  they  would  make.  I  have  done.  Farewell  !” 

“  My  gracious  liege,”  said  the  Bishop  of  Meath,  as  William 
turned  away,  “  remember  the  creed  of  the  rebels  you  would  thus 
propose  to  patronize.  Deign,  sire,  tenderly  to  remember  our 
loyalty,  our  sufferings,  and  our  lawful  expectations  of  redress. 
Deign — ” 

“  Bishop  of  Meath,  attend.  While  holding  up  my  right  hand, 
in  the  face  of  heaven  and  of  men,  to  repeat  and  swear  my  corona¬ 
tion  oath,  a  clause  was  proposed  to  me  that  I  should  ‘root 
out  heretics.’  At  these  words,  I  stopped  my  Lord  of  Argyle, 
who  administered  the  oath,  and  declared  I  did  not  mean  to 
oblige  myself  to  become  a  persecutor.  The  commissioner  ex¬ 
plained  that  such,  surely,  was  not  the  meaning  of  the  oath  ;  and 
then  I  bid  them  note  that  in  such  a  sense  only  I  took  it.  The 
same,  Bishop  of  Meath,  do  I  now  desire  you  to  note.  And  so, 
an  end.  Let  the  siege  be  raised,  and  the  army  retire  on  Clon¬ 
mel.  Solmes  and  Hinkle,  remember  my  orders,  and  give  them 
all  effect.” 

“We  promise  to  do  so,”  they  answered,  equally  indifferent, 
with  William,  to  the  petty  Irish  divisions,  upon  which  alone 
Irishmen  could  contemplate  a  great  struggle. 

“  Be  it  so,”  whispered  Dr.  Dopping  to  Colonel  Lloyd,  who 
smiled  at  the  allusion  that  followed  ;  “we  may  yet  have  our  own 
audience,  and  our  own  day  for  it.” 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Evelyn  remained  in  Limerick,  after  the  retreat  of  William’s 
army,  most  anxious  for  the  interview  with  James  M’Donnell, 
which  their  last  rencounter  led  him  every  moment  to  expect.  But 

n 


530 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


weeks  and  months  passed  on  without  any  appearance  of  thffl 
young  man.  Becoming  impatient,  Evelyn  applied  to  Sarsfield  for 
permission  to  go  seek  him  or  Carolan,  pledging  his  parole  for  a 
punctual  return  to  the  city.  He  was  informed  by  the  general 
that  such  a  step  would,  in  all  probability,  now  prove  useless. 
Inasmuch  as  Edmund  M’Donnell,  or  Yamen-ac-knuck,  was  known 
to  have  changed  his  ground  of  operation,  from  Munster  and 
Connaught,  into  Leinster,  in  consequence  of  the  deadly  hostility 
directed  against  him  by  the  whole  of  the  invading  army,  of  which 
the  greater  portion  were  now  formed  into  imitative  bands  of 
freebooters,  hunting  down  their  prototypes,  or  plundering,  in 
common  with  them,  the  unprotected  and  miserable  population. 

Edmund’s  brother  must  necessarily  have  followed  the  wander¬ 
ings  of  his  senior  and  commander,  into  whatever  unknown  dis¬ 
trict  was,  at  present,  the  scene  of  their  exertions  or  concealment. 
Sarsfield  added  that,  apart  from  the  difficulty  of  discovering  their 
retreat,  extreme  peril  would  be  incurred  even  in  the  attempt  ; 
because,  of  all  Irish  Rapparees  then  abroad,  none  had  given  so 
much  cause  as  Yamen-ac-knuck  for  the  determined  warfare  di¬ 
rected  against  him.  Influenced  by  the  whole  of  this  reasoning, 
Evelyn  gave  up  his  intention  of  leaving  Limerick. 

Time  wore  away.  Another  campaign  was  opened  against  the 
Irish  army  ;  Ginkle  being  now  head  general  of  the  force  of  their 
enemies.  Before  the  affair  of  Limerick,  Lauzen  had  accom¬ 
plished  his  plan  of  re-embarking  for  France,  himself  and  his  men. 
Tyrconnel,  previously  assuming,  in  his  stead,  the  chief  command 
of  James’s  Irish  soldiers,  sailed  with  him,  in  order  to  negotiate, 
at  St.  Germains,  a  supply  of  arms,  clothes,  provisions,  and,  if 
possible,  money.  While  he  was  yet  in  France,  a  deputation 
from  the  Irish  army,  composed  of  some  gallant  officers,  reached 
James,  conveyed  the  first  intelligence  of  the  siege  of  Limerick, 
and  of  Sarsfield’s  previous  exploit  ;  remonstrating  against  being 
commanded  by  a  man  so  old  and  undistinguished  as  Tyrconnel  ; 
praying  the  appointment  of  a  native  Irish  general  of  character 
and  experience  in  the  field  ;  and  strongly,  though  indirectly, 
manifesting  their  willingness  that  Sarsfield  should  be  that  general. 
James  wavered,  and  was  about  to  concede  to  their  wishes,  when 
Tyrconnel,  now  aware  of  the  object  of  the  deputation,  wrote  to 
him  from  the  coast,  whither  he  had  advanced  on  his  way  home, 
a  letter  that,  in  pique  and  dotage,  inveighed  against  the  Irish 
officers,  sneered  at  Sarsfield,  and  altogether  urged  his  master  to 
pay  no  attention  to  the  remonstrance.  The  exiled  king,  unable 


TBE  BOYNE  WATER. 


531 


to  resist  the  appeal  of  his  oldest  servant,  but  worst  enemy,  be 
came,  as  was  usual  with  him  in  cases  of  difficulty,  fretted  and  un¬ 
decided  ;  and  at  last  took  a  middle  course,  that  he  thought  would 
calm,  if  it  did  not  satisfy,  all  parties  of  his  Irish  friends  ;  but 
that  proved,  in  fact,  the  ruin  of  his  last  hope  of  empire.  Uu- 
ciAight  by  the  disastrous  effects  he  had  himself  seen  flow  from 
the  natural  jealousy  of  brave  and  devoted  men  to  be  commanded 
in  their  native  land  by  a  foreigner,  and  regardless  of  their  present 
lively  wish,  as  expressed  in  their  remonstrance,  he  named  St. 
Ruth  to  be  their  general,  leaving  Sarsfield  and  Tyrconnel,  about 
equal  in  rank  and  authority,  under  him.  To  the  former  Irish 
officer  he  forwarded,  through  the  hands  of  the  latter,  a  patent  of 
nobility,  creating  him  Earl  of  Lucan,  which  he  deemed  would 
go  a  good  way  in  soothing  the  disappointment  of  Sarsfield’s 
friends,  and  Sarsfield’s  self,  at  his  rejection  of  their  prayer,  and 
the  again  subjecting  them  to  the  arrogance  of  a  French  com¬ 
mander.  But,  though  the  patent  was  accepted,  it  failed  in  its 
expected  good  effects.  The  national  jealousy,  kept  up  with,  it 
would  seem,  a  studious  care,  deprived  King  James  of  the 
energies  and  services  of  his  Irish  army,  and  now  his  only 
one  ;  deprived  him  of  his  throne ;  and  deprived  them  of  a 
country. 

Under  the  baneful  influence  of  this  jealousy,  the  battle  of 
Aughrim  was  fought  between  Ginkle  and  the  Irish  army,  who 
had  advanced  from  Limerick  to  meet  him.  St.  Ruth  and  Sars¬ 
field  quarrelled  on  the  field,  the  very  night  before  the  struggle  ; 
the  overweening  hauteur  of  the  one  justly  provoking  the  sturdy 
manliness  of  the  other.  Although  now  acting  as  confidential 
colleagues,  the  rash  and  insolent,  yet  brave  and  experienced 
Frenchman,  carried  to  such  a  criminal  pitch  his  petty  dudgeon, 
as  to  withhold  from  Sarsfield  all  advice  of  his  plans  for  the  en¬ 
gagement,  his  disposition  of  the  forces,  or,  in  case  of  his  own 
fall,  what  was  to  be  done,  consistently  with  previous  movements 
and  final  calculations  to  insure  a  victory. 

To  the  battle  he  went  in  sullen  mystery.  Yet  he  took  up  his 
ground  well,  and  like  a  good  general  ;  and,  directed  by  his  skill, 
his  Irish  soldiers  well  seconded  him.  All  historians  acknow¬ 
ledge  this.  Agaiu  and  again  they  repulsed  with  great  loss  the 
brave  veterans  who  attacked  them,  remaining  unshaken  in  their 
own  positions.  Evening  drew  on,  and  Ginkle  was  about  to  re¬ 
tire.  Yet  would  he  try  a  last  effort  ;  and  he  was  again  beaten 
back  ;  his  whole  army  shook.  St.  Ruth,  well  able  to  watch  his 


632 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


time,  was  about  to  head  the  charge  that  must  have  decided,  for 
the  present,  the  fate  of  three  kingdoms. 

“  Now,”  he  cried,  “  will  I  drive  them  to  the  walls  of  Dublin.” 
But  even  as  he  spoke,  a  cannon  shot  struck  him  dead  :  his 
troops  paused,  first  in  consternation,  then  in  uncertainty  ;  Sars- 
field  was  called  on  to  take  his  place,  and  carry  into  effect  the 
movements  he  had  intended.  But  here  burst  the  thunderbolt  of 
divided  councils.  The  Irish  general,  unaware,  as  has  been  shown, 
of  the  plans  of  St.  Ruth,  required  some  minutes  to  cast  his  eye 
abroad,  and  arrange,  according  to  his  unexpected  situation,  a 
plan  of  his  own.  While  he  paused,  his  soldiers,  checked  in  the 
ardor  of  a  charge,  and  affected  by  the  sudden  loss  of  their  first 
general,  cooled,  doubted,  wavered.  Grinkle  took  instant  advan¬ 
tage  of  their  confusion  :  the  field  of  Aughrim  was  lost — lost  in 
the  very  moment  it  had  been  won.  The  fall  of  a  brave  man,  no 
matter  what  may  be  his  faults,  must  ever  be  a  subject  of  regret. 
But  those  most  interested  in  the  event  we  glance  at,  may  be  ex¬ 
cused  for  having  felt,  at  the  moment,  how  slightly  did  the  fate 
of  St.  Ruth  expiate  the  vast  misfortune  into  which  his  silly  self- 
conceit  thus  plunged  thousands  of  men  as  brave  as  he. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  Evelyn  to  ask  any  question  of  the 
fortune  of  the  battle,  when,  soon  after  its  close,  Sarsfield,  dis¬ 
pirited  and  dejected,  re-entered  Limerick,  at  the  head  of  his  still 
formidable  army.  But  in  a  few  hours  the  general  cheered  up  ; 
resumed  his  self-possession  and  energies,  and  gave  orders  to  pre¬ 
pare  for  a  second  siege.  He  was  cheerfully  seconded.  No  heart 
but  the  impetuous  and  unenduring  one  of  Tyrconnel,  refused  to 
respond  to  his  yet  lively  hopes.  And  that  heart  broke  in  pue¬ 
rile  despair  ;  the  victim  of  its  own  reacting  impatience,  and  of 
the  uncalculating  violence  of  temperament  that  always  grasped 
at  much,  but  could  never  take  one  sedate  step  to  accomplish  even 
a  little. 

Sarsfield  felt  himself  entitled  to  just  grounds  of  hope  for  ulti¬ 
mate  success.  His  army  was  still  formidable,  and,  at  last  under 
his  command,  more  effective  than  ever.  They  prepared  to  meet 
in  Limerick  the  same  foe  they  had  before  driven  from  its  walls. 
William's  affairs  went  on  but  indifferently  on  the  Continent.  He 
had  gone  over  to  direct  them,  in  person,  but  returned  to  Eng¬ 
land  without  fresh  laurels.  His  domestic  enemies,  in  England, 
were  still  watchful  and  inveterate.  He  could  not  spare  another 
regiment  to  Ireland.  French  fleets  rode  triumphantly  in  the 
British  seas.  Lastly,  Louis,  rejecting  the  statements  of  Lau- 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


533 


■an,  and  judging  for  himself,  by  the  late  instances  of  native  Irish 
character,  had  promised  to  send  a  considerable  number  of  ships, 
bearing  money,  provisions,  arms,  and  men,  to  the  very  walls  of 
Limerick.  With  these  views  and  prospects  to  stand  upon,  Sars- 
field  did  not  fear  the  approach  of  Ginkle.  Nor,  perhaps,  from 
similar  calculations,  did  that  general  seem  very  sanguine  of  suc¬ 
cess.  At  all  events,  acting  upon  the  last  instructions  of  his  mas¬ 
ter,  he  now  offered  to  the  Irish  garrison  the  most  honorable  and 
advantageous  terms  of  surrender.  They  were  refused.  He  sat 
down  before  Limerick,  and  carried  on,  without  effect,  a  vigorous 
siege.  The  city  was,  in  all  directions,  fired  by  his  shells  or  bat¬ 
tered  by  his  cannon.  The  people  fled  from  their  ruined  houses 
into  a  part  of  King’s  Island,  on  which  no  buildings  stood.  He 
made  a  breach  near  Ball’s  Bridge  :  still  without  good  results. 
His  batteries  grew  silent.  He  turned  away  from  the  breach  he 
had  effected  ;  removed  his  train  and  army  ;  invested  the  town 
from  another  point,  at  the  county  Clare  side  ;  crossed  the  Shan¬ 
non  ;  surprised  an  Irish  outpost,  who  retired  in  confusion  over 
Thomond  Bridge,  their  Trench  major  shutting  hundreds  of  them 
out  to  the  mercy  of  the  pursuers,  from  whom  they  got  noue 
But,  even  yet,  Limerick  and  its  garrison  were  safe,  and,  as  much 
as  ever,  beyond  his  reach.  Feeling  this,  Ginkle  again  proposed 
the  same  favorable  terms  he  had  before  more  than  once  sent  in. 
He  dreaded  the  approach  of  the  promised  French  fleet. 

But  while  he  dreaded,  his  enemies  despaired  of  its  approach. 
Months  had  passed  away  since  the  time  they  had  been  led  to  ex¬ 
pect  it  ;  but  it  came  not.  James’s  Irish  subjects  despaired  of 
his  zeal,  sympathy,  and  exertions  in  their  behalf.  They  argued 
that  he  had  at  last  wholly  deserted  his  own  cause  and  them. 
They  were  in  much  want  of  all  that  the  fleet  was  to  have  brought 
them.  They  began  to  turn  an  eye  to  Ginkle’s  proposals.  They 
said,  since  we  are  thus  left  to  ourselves,  we  will  make  terms  for 
ourselves  ;  and  here,  apart  from  the  claim  of  James,  here  are 
terms  fully  as  favorable  as  those  we  could  have  expected,  even 
from  him.  Sarsfield  heard  them  with  impatience,  and  urged  per¬ 
severance  to  the  last.  They  were  still  willing  to  listen  to  him  ; 
still  willing  to  persevere.  But  now  comes  in  a  rather  important 
fact,  for  which  James  himself,  and  his  reverend  amanuensis,  are 
authority.  The  clergy  (as  their  predecessors  before  had  done  in 
earlier  periods  of  Irish  history,  when  Fitzstephens  was  before 
Wexford,  and  Henry  II.  before  Dublin,  for  instance)  interfered, 
recommending  a  treaty  with  Ginkle.  This  advice  could  not  be 


534 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


resisted.  Even  Sarsfield  gave  up  opposition  to  the  general  im* 
pression  it  at  once  made  ;  and,  after  some  preliminaries,  went 
out  to  G  inkle’s  camp,  accompanied  by  an  eminent  Irish  lawyer, 
Sir  Tobias  Butler,  Viscount  Galmoy,  and  three  colonels,  to  dine 
with  their  new  friend,  and,  at  the  leisure  of  all,  discuss  and  sign 
a  treaty. 

After  their  departure  from  the  city,  Evelyn  stood  on  a  part  of 
the  walls  that  faced  the  country  uninvested  by  G  inkle’s  army. 
Mis  thoughts  and  his  heart  were  as  dreary  as  the  October  day, 
through  whose  drizzling  mist  he  looked  vacantly  over  the  desert 
landscape.  Three  figures  on  horseback  caught  his  eye  advan¬ 
cing  rapidly  to  John’s  Gate.  At  a  first  glance,  he  perceived  that 
one  was  a  female,  riding  between  two  men.  They  drew  nearer  ; 
the  lady  appeared  to  be  youthful ;  her  companions,  a  young  man, 
sitting  very  erect  and  stiff  in  his  saddle,  and  an  old  man,  bent 
almost  double  to  his  horse’s  neck.  The  steeds  of  all  seemed 
jaded  and  soiled,  as  if  after  a  long  and  painful  journey.  Eve¬ 
lyn’s  bosom  beat  quick  ;  imagination  already  identified  the  three 
travellers  ;  although  they  were  yet  too  distant,  and  the  misty 
medium  too  thick,  to  warrant  him  in  making  any  certain  conclu¬ 
sions. 

While  he  still  gazed  on  them,  a  hasty  step  approached  the 
place  where  he  stood  ;  and,  turning  round,  Evelyn  saw  James 
M’Donnell  by  his  side.  At  the  same  moment,  two  women, 
wrapped  close  in  the  common  Irish  mantle,  emerged,  at  some 
distance  from  the  steps  that  led  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  and 
there  stopped,  as  if  stealthily  observing  him  and  Evelyn. 

“  You  are  found  at  last,  sir?”  said  the  young  man  angrily. 

“  Say,  rather,  you  are  come  at  last,”  replied  Evelyn  ;  “  I 
awaited  you  here,  since  our  meeting  in  the  hills.” 

“  W ell  ;  perchance  that,  at  least,  is  true.  But  you  will 
excuse  my  absence,  sir;  the  chances  of  the  service  in  which  I  am 
engaged,  deprived  me  of  all  opportunity,  with  due  regard  to  the 
safety  of  a  beloved  brother,  to  enter  Limerick  sooner  than  this 
morning.  Now  we  are  met,  however;  and — ” 

“  Pardon  me  in  turn.  Before  we  speak  further,  how  is  that 
brother  ?” 

“  Oh,  sir,”  with  a  scoffing  tone,  “  well;  and,  for  the  first  time 
during  this  campaign,  near  us,  in  Clare,  yonder.  Near  those, 
too,  who,  as  we  speak,  perhaps,  have  again  felt  the  hand  they 
often  felt  before.” 

“  Does  he  know  of  your  business  in  Limerick  ?” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


535 


“No,  sir.  And  your  own  knowledge  of  the  cause  of  his 
personal  forbearance  towards  you,  might  have  spared  that 
question  ;  might  have  informed  you  that  I  would  uot,  by  making 
my  elder  brother  aware  of  my  business,  run  the  risk  of  his 
commands  against  it.” 

“  Well,  sir,  I  have  done  questioning.  Proceed,  and  briefly 
for  I  am  called  hence,”  resumed  Evelyn,  looking  off  the  walls, 
and  assuring  himself,  just  as  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  them  from 
his  view,  that  the  three  travellers  were  Eva,  Carolan,  and  Priest 
M’Donnell. 

“  You  have  basely  wronged  my  sister,”  cried  the  youth. 

“  Never;  in  act,  word,  or  thought.” 

“  Have  a  care,  master  Evelyn  ;  and  add  not  renewed  falsity 
to  great  wrong.” 

‘‘The  warning  is  as  vain  as  it  is  idle.  But,  no;  there  cannot 
— shall  not  be  a  quarrel  between  us.  Tell  me  why  you  charge 
me  thus,  and  listen  to  my  disproof.  That  must  be  the  only 
course  at  present.” 

“  First,  then” — scarce  able  to  curb  his  impatience — “  when 
she  was  assailed  by  the  blackest  villain  alive,  amid  the  ruins  of 
her  father’s  house,  in  Glenarriff,  you  abandoned  her,  like  a  cow¬ 
ard  and  a  recreant,  leaving  an  insolent  message  to  be  delivered 
to  her  by  your  miuion  of  the  hour.” 

Evelyn  smiled  bitterly,  and  asked  :  “  Who  told  you  this  ?” 

The  two  women,  who  had  been  slowly  advancing,  were  Onagh 
and  Moya  ;  they  now  stood  close  to  the  disputants.  Onagh, 
holding  Moya’s  hand  in  one  of  hers,  and  pointing  at  her  with 
the  other,  anticipated  James  M’DonneH’s  answer,  by  saying  : 

“  This  colleen  told  him.” 

The  youth  started,  turned  round,  and  exclaimed  : 

“  Yes,  by  Heaven  !  that  is  our  informant.  Come  hither,  I 
care  not  how,  at  a  needful  moment.  Speak,  woman !  was  not 
such  your  story  ?” 

“  Such  was  her  lying  story,”  interposed  Onagh,  “  which  she 
is  now  here  to  gainsay.” 

“  What !”  cried  James  M’Donnell ;  “  have  we  been  practised 
on,  indeed,  by  a  creature  like  you?  Were  they  false  tales  you 
told  us  ?” 

“  Answer,  Moya  Laherty,”  resumed  Onagh,  while  the  Rap- 
paree  girl  hung  her  head,  in  silence,  the  hood  of  her  cloak  half 
hiding  her  features,  but  not  disguising  the  mortified  or  repentant 
tears  that  wetted  her  altered  cheek ;  “  answer,  I  say,”  Onagh 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


went  on — “  speak  up,  as  you  spoke  to  me,  and  for  the  reasons 
that  made  you  promise  to  tell  the  truth  to  others.  Remember 
your  hopes  of  him  are  past  ;  remember  the  woe  and  heartbreak 
your  stories  have  brought  on  all ;  remember  your  sorrow  for  the 
sin  :  and,  above  all,  remember  the  punishment  and  the  troubles 
I  have  shown  you  I  could  bring  down  on  your  young  head,  if 
you  go  back  from  the  truth,  and  rebel  against  me.  Say  it  out 
boldly,  Moya  Laherty.  Did  you  tell  lies  of  this  Sassenach 
gentleman  ?” 

“  I  did,”  at  last  replied  Moya,  chiefly  wrought  upon,  perhaps, 
by  the  threat  of  supernatural  horrors,  with  which  Onagh  had 
principally  won  her  to  her  present  humor. 

“  He  did  not  fly,  then,  from  the  Strip  of  Burne,  nor  bid  you 
tell  Eva  M’Donnell  that  he  was  weary  of  the  love  between 
them  ?” 

“  Nien.  But  while  the  house  was  clear,  an’  the  last  o’  the 
Rapparees  huntin’  the  red-coats  down  the  glin,  an’,  one  way  or 
another,  no  one  left  on  the  flure  but  mysef  an’  the  wounded 
Sassenach,  I  pulled  him  out  o’  sight,  over  the  thatch  an’  stones, 
into  the  corner.  An’  when  Yamen  M’Daniel  come  back,  I  tould 
him  what  ye  know.” 

“  And  when  I  recovered  from  my  wound  you  also  gave  me 
false  accounts  of  them  ?”  asked  Evelyn. 

“  Ochown,  Sassenach !  I  did,  I  did,”  said  Moya,  sobbing  and 
weeping  plentifully. 

“Wretched  creature!”  exclaimed  James  M’Donnell.  “The 
second  message  you  brought  to  my  brother  and  sister  from 
Schomberg’s  camp,  was  that  false  too  ?” 

Moya  yielded  an  afflicted  assent. 

“  But  how  came  you  by  the  ring  and  other  tokens,  which  you 
said  Master  Evelyn  had  sent  back  by  you  ?” 

“  I  think  I  can  answer  that,”  said  Evelyn.  “  She  came  dis- 
honestly  by  them,  while  attending  me  in  the  disguise  of  an  En- 
niskihener — in  the  same  way  that  enabled  her  to  pin  the  letter 
from  Eva  in  the  cover  of  my  travelling  valise.” 

“  Och,  yes,  yes  !”  sobbed  Moya.  “  But  you  never  knew  me, 
Sassenach,  a-chorra  ?” 

“  No,  nor  scarce  suspected  you  until  the  last  night  we  met  in 
O’Haggerty’s  camp.  Then,  however,  your  voice,  undisguised  in 
passion,  fully  discovered  you,  and  also  showed  me  your  motive, 
Moya,  for  the  part  you  were  playing.  But,  another  question. 
Was  the  appearance  of  Master  James  M’ Donnell  in  the  hut, 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  537 

after  the  men  brought  in  lights,  a  matter  arranged  between  you 
aud  him  ?” 

While  the  youth  seemed  impatient  to  answer,  Moya  hastily 
said — “  I  never  thought,  till  the  present  moment  I  hear  you  say 
it,  that  you  saw  him  there.  I  only  knew  that,  while  I  slipped 
out,  an’  your  back  to  the  door,  some  one  stepped  in  against  me.” 

“  Of  her  or  you,  Master  Evelyn,  I  then  had  heard  nothing,” 
added  James  M’Donnell.  “  I  was,  by  chance,  a  sojourner  for 
the  night  in  the  little  encampment,  on  my  way  from  England,  to 
seek  the  surviving  members  of  my  family.  I  heard  this  woman’s 
screams  in  your  hut,  and  stepped  in  to  ascertain  the  cause. 
That  is  all.” 

“  You  visited  Kensington  Palace  during  your  travel  through 
Eugland  from  Spain,  sir  ?”  observed  Evelyn. 

The  young  man  started,  stared,  and  frowned. 

“  Pear  me  not,”  drawing  him  aside,  “  although  I  saw  you  sit¬ 
ting  in  the  lonely  seat,  when  you  took  out  and  kissed  your  dag¬ 
ger  ;  and  twice  after — once,  when  you  would  have  pushed 
through  the  Dutch  guards  into  the  court,  where  William  was 
mounting  for  the  hunt ;  and  again,  in  the  audience  chamber 
where — ” 

“  Hush,  sir  1  Enough.  Did  you — or  rather,  how  did  you 
know  me  ?” 

“  I  knew  you  not,  though,  in  agony  and  despair,  I  thought  I 
did.  Your  great  likeness  to  your  sister — assisted  by  accounts 
of  her  conduct,  which  yon  girl  told  me,  but  which,  along  with  all 
her  other  stories,  I  am,  thank  Heaven,  now  able  to  disbelieve — 
led  me  into  a  horrible  mistake  of  your  person  then  and  after¬ 
wards.  At  Essex-gate,  when  the  tidings  of  William’s  landing 
reached  Dublin  ;  in  the  battle  of  the  Boyne  ;  aud  lastly,  in  your 
island  bower  in  Tipperary.” 

Scarcely  attending  to  Evelyn’s  last  words,  the  young  man  bent 
his  eyes  a  moment  on  the  ground  ;  then  hastily  resumed,  with  a 
flashing  glance — 

“  You  guessed  my  business,  too  ?” 

“  Perchance  I  did,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  If  not,  learn  it  now,  sir,”  the  youth  continued  fiercely. 
“  Chance  tidings  of  the  ruin  of  my  family  reached  me  abroad, 
where  I  was  supposed  to  have  died,  but  where  I  only  awaited  the 
end  of  a  bad  illness  to  return  to  my  native  country.  My  blood 
could  not  choose  but  boil  with  rage  and  revenge.  I  looked 
round  for  a  victim.  My  eye  fixed  on  him  who  was  the  head  and 


538 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


cause  of  all.  I  sailed  for  England,  devised  plans  to  reach  him, 
sought  him  out,  had  him  almost  within  arm’s  length,  and — 
curses  ! — missed  him.  Make  your  own  account  of  the  story. 

“  You  surely  cannot  suppose  me  inclined  to  turn  it  to  any  ac¬ 
count  injurious  to  you,”  said  Evelyn,  “  especially  after  the  ex¬ 
planation  that  has  here  fallen  out  between  us  ?  Are  we  not 
friends  ?  Are  you  not  assured  I  never  harbored  a  thought  of 
wronging  your  sister?  Nay,  let  me  add,  that  Eva  could  not 
have  suffered  as  I  did  ;  that  the  deepest  misery  was  mine.  And 
that  no  earthly  prospect  is  so  bright  with  happiness  to  me  as  the 
hope,  after  one  other  question,  of  again  placing  on  her  finger 
this  little  bond  of  our  love  and  eternal  union.”  He  drew 
from  his  bosom  the  marriage  ring  that  Eva  had  returned,  and 
that,  ever  since,  he  had  worn  suspended  round  his  neck. 

“  Another  question  !”  echoed  James  M’Donnell.  “  What  is 
it,  ?  Does  it  shape  a  doubt  of  my  sister  ?” 

“  No  ;  but  its  answer — if  possible  from  her  own  lips — would 
make  me  the  happiest  of  living  men.” 

“  Your  method  of  solution  proposes  an  impossibility,”  said  the 
youth.  “  My  sister  has  been  in  France  since  the  retreat  of  James 
from  Dublin — she  sailed  with  him.” 

“  But  she  is  not  in  France,  now,”  said  Onagh. 

“Where  then  ?”  asked  James  M’Donnell. 

“  On  the  road  to  meet  us  all,  in  this  place,”  replied  Onagh. 
“  So  came  the  word  this  morning  to  me  ;  the  word  that  made 
me  come  to  Limerick  with  Moya  Laherty  by  the  hand.” 

“Who  sent  it  ?” 

“  The  friend  of  her  and  you — Carolan.” 

“  But  /  know  she  is  not  on  the  road,”  cried  Evelyn,  “  because 
Bhe  is  this  moment  within  the  walls  we  stand  on — I  heard  the 
gate  open  to  let  her  in.” 

“  He  speaks  true,”  said  Onagh  ;  “  look  there.” 

Eva,  supported  by  Carolan  and  old  Father  M’Donnell,  ap¬ 
peared  coming  up  the  steps  of  the  wall.  With  a  cry  of  joy, 
James  M’Donnell  sprang  to  his  sister.  Evelyn  was  following, 
when  Onagh  caught  him  back,  saying,  “Not  yet.’?  The  distant 
group  conversed  rapidly  and  energetically  together  ;  Eva  holding 
her  eyes  down,  as  she  attentively  listened  to  Carolan  and  her 
brother.  At  last  she  lifted  them  up.  They  fixed,  floating  in 
tears,  on  Evelyn  ;  she  stretched  out  her  arms  ;  and,  in  a  mo¬ 
ment,  was  clasped  to  hio  heart. 

“I  hear  your  murmuiings  of  joy,”  said  Carolan,  standing 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


539 


eroct  and  proud,  while  tears  ran  down  his  own  cheeks,  “  and  ’tis 
joy  to  me,  because  I  have  made  it.  I  told  you  it  was  my  duty 
to  see  you  righted,  Mr.  Evelyn  ;  I  gave  you  a  promise  that  I 
would.  I  gathered,  as  I  said  I  would,  the  true  story  from  Onagh, 
and  the  wicked  Moya  herself.  I  bore  it  over  the  wide  sea  ;  I 
walked  with  it,  alone,  over  the  face  of  a  wide  and  strange  coun¬ 
try,  God  and  an  honest  heart  giving  me  help  and  guidance  on 
the  road..  I  found  out  her  whose  happiness  it  concerned.  I  told 
it  to  her  ;  and  she  is  here,  at  home,  happy  again.” 

“  Noble  Carolan  1”  said  Eva.  “  All  is,  indeed,  as  you  hear, 
dear  Evelyn  ;  many  hundreds  of  miles,  through  France,  did  the 
poor  harper  walk  to  see  me.  He  who  guides  the  peace-herald¬ 
ing  dove  on  her  airy  course,  who  feeds  the  raven  in  the  desert, 
and  smooths  the  path  for  the  pilgrim,  can  alone  say  how.  Never 
appeared  vision  of  sleep  more  doubtful  to  my  waking  senses, 
than  the  vision  of  his  face  at  my  convent  grate.  And  well  may 
he  stand  erect  there  witnessing  the  happiness  he  has  conferred  ; 
for  there  be  reasons,  which  you  do  not  guess,  that  make  his  act 
a  virtue  truly.” 

“  Eva,  Eva,”  said  Carolan,  “I  am  proud,  indeed  ;  but  you  will 
praise  me  too  much.  I  have  done  what  I  have  done,  to  make 
myself  blessed,  as  well  as  you.” 

“  Much  sooner  should  my  reverend  guardian  and  myself  have 
obeyed  his  summons  home,  Evelyn,  but  that  we  waited  safe  con¬ 
voy  across  the  seas,  which  at  length  we  found — but  more  of  that 
anon.  Now  let  me  ask  one  necessary  question” — advancing  to 
Onagh  and  Moya — “  let  me  demand  what  could  have  been  the 
cause  of  the  wicked  and  cruel  practices  which  have  so  long 
brought  misery  on  us  all.  Tell  me,  poor  maiden,  what  could  have 
set  you  on  ?” 

“  Tell  me  what  has  brought  you  over  say  an’  land,  to  get  one 
fond  glance  from  his  eye,  one  kiss  from  his  mouth  !”  answered 
Moya,  fiercely,  her  impetuous  nature  aroused  into  madness,  not¬ 
withstanding  her  late  penitence,  at  the  sight  of  the  true  love  she 
had  so  often  tried  to  cross.  “  He  was  my  heart’s  wish — I  doated 
on  the  villain  Sassenach.  Sowl  an’  body,  here  and  to  come,  I’d 
have  laid  down — as,  more  than  onst,  I  ventured  life — to  make 
him  love  poor  Moya.” 

“For  life,  indeed,  I  have  twice  been  Moya’s  debtor,”  said 
Evelyn  to  Eva,  “  and  never  shall  forget  it,  however  selfish  might 
have  been — ” 

“  Yes,  grand  colleen,”  broke  in  Moya — “  for  him  I  done  more 


540 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


— dared  more — than  you  ever  did — than  you  can  ever  do.  For 
him  I  gave  up  kith  an’  kin — cause  an’  couathry — kind  words  for 
the  voices  o’  sthrangers — my  woman’s  mantle  for  a  man’s  battle- 
coat.  I  watched  him — followed  him — I  laid  my  head  on  the 
could  earth,  at  his  feet — look  here  !” — tearing  open  her  bosom, 
upon  which  was  the  mark  of  the  scar  she  had  received  at  the 
Strip  of  Burne — “  the  pike  that  entered  here  was  aimed  at  his 
heart.  An’  now — an’  now  he  laves  me  alone  forever.  Cead 
mille  #urses  !”  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  up — “may  all — 
But  no” — suddenly  changed  by  one  of  the  gusts  of  better  feel¬ 
ing  that  alternated  with  her  uncurbed  passions  and  unprincipled 
habits — “  no,  grand  colleen,  Moya  will  never  pray  a  curse  on 
his  head— nor  on  yours — since  he  loves  and  likes  you  ;  she  has 
no  right.  ’Twas  all  a  wild  dhrame  she  was  in,  and  maybe,  as 
ye  say,  a  wicked  one.  You  desarve  the  Sassenach-dhass,  an’ 
she  does  not  ;  she,  the  poor  Rapparee’s  child,  that  hasn’t  a  home 
or  a  couuthry  even  in  the  counthry  they  call  their  own.  An’  so 
love  him,  an’  keep  by  his  side.  Only  love  him  as  well  as  Moya 
Laherty — be  as  willin’  to  do  as  much  for  him — to  give  up  all — 
to  see  the  heart’s  blood  run  loose  for  him — to  die  contented  for 
him — love  him,  that  way,  an’  Moya  will  thry  to  pray  good,  in¬ 
stead  of  bad,  for  you,  the  last  black  day  she  lives — God  be  wid 
ye.” 

She  turned  down  the  steps. 

“  Truly,”  said  Eva,  recovering  from  much  astonishment,  “  my 
poor  rival  but  tells  me  my  duty,  Evelyn.  Her  faults,  and  the 
pain  she  has  given  us,  must  be  forgotten  now,  and  her  future 
comfort  attended  to.  I  have  but  one  other  explanation  to  seek. 
Onagh,  look  upon  me.  I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  late  good  ser¬ 
vices  you  have  done  me  and  mine  ;  but  I  cannot  forget  your 
former  unprovoked  hostility.  Nay,  its  recollection  only  makes 
as  unaccountable  as  itself  that  late  kindness.  You  owe  me  a 
faithful  account  of  the  reasons  that  urged  you  to  cross  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  my  brother.  Give  it,  faithfully  and  plainly  ;  for  I  am 
told  you  can  now  speak  more  plainly  than  you  used  to  do.” 

“  I  can,  Eva  M’Donnell.  But  you  ask  me  for  reasons — and 
reasons  I  cannot  give.  As  well  may  you  ask  the  sea  why  it  crushes 
the  ribs  of  the  strong  ship  against  the  rock  ;  or  the  wind  why  it 
tears  up  the  stately  tree  ;  or  the  fire  why  it  burns  ;  or  the  water 
why  it  drowns.  My  mind  was  then  without  a  reason  for  any 
thing,  most  of  all  for  that ;  it  dashed  like  the  sea  ;  roared  like 
the  wind  ;  burned  like  the  fire  ;  all  with  that  upon  it.  Why  I 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


541 


have  brought  sorrow  to  you,  I  don’t  know.  Or  if  I  told  you 
how  I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  do  it,  you  would  not  know  my 
meaning.  I  do  not  know  it  myself  now,  in  the  calm  hours  that 
are  restored  to  me.  Yet,  listen  to  all  I  can  tell. 

“  You  had  a  brother  Donald,  comely  as  the  day,  light  of 
heart  as  the  breeze  ;  but  as  false,  too.  He  came  to  this  south¬ 
ern  country  in  his  youth,  to  take  care  of  some  grounds  belonging 
to  your  family.  He  was  formed  to  make  women  love  him  ;  and 
to  make  all  that  loved  him  rue  it  sorely.  From  the  highest  to 
the  lowest,  among  those  equal  to  him  and  below  him,  he  smiled, 
and  had  smiles  in  return.  With  the  rest,  he  courted  young 
Grace  Nowlan — you  heard  of  her  ?” 

“  I  did,”  answered  Eva.  “  I  heard  she  was  the  handsomest 
maiden  in  her  country,  of  his  own  rank  in  life  ;  and  Donald’s 
father  was  glad  when  it  was  thought  he  would  wed  her.” 

“  Well.  Grace  Nowlan  loved  him  better  than  her  own  life — 
better  than  her  own  honor.  The  hour  of  her  shame  drew  on  ; 
she  came  weeping  to  Donald  M’Donnell,  to  ask  him  to  do  her 
justice :  he  only  laughed,  kissed,  and  left  her.  Grace  had 
brothers.  They  suspected  her  state  ;  they  gathered  round  her, 
and  asked  her,  with  terrible  threats,  to  tell  them  the  truth.  She 
was  obliged  to  confess  all.  They  went  away,  whispering  to¬ 
gether.  In  a  little  time,  she  was  a  mother.  Soon  after  she  re¬ 
ceived  a  message  from  Donald,  inviting  her  to  give  him  another 
sinful  meeting.  Her  brothers  came  and  told  her  they  knew  of 
the  message,  and  commanded  her  to  comply  with  it  so  far  as  to 
make  the  signal  at  Donald’s  window,  and  meet  him  as  he  came 
out.  She  feared  in  her  heart  to  do  as  they  bid  her  ;  but  they 
frightened  her  into  it  So  she  went  ;  alone,  as  she  thought. 

“  That  night,  light-hearted  Donald  M’Donnell  had  a  brave 
company  of  youngsters,  like  himself,  drinking  and  singing  in  his 
house.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Grace’s  signal  was  heard  by 
him  and  them,  at  the  window.  It  was  the  throwing  of  three 
pebbles  at  the  glass.  He  said  he  should  leave  them  for  a  space. 
They  laughed  and  bantered  him  ;  bidding  him  go,  and  that  they 
would  stay  to  drink  him  success. 

“  He  went  down  stairs.  They  heard  him  open  and  shut  the 
door.  They  drank  bumpers  to  his  success,  as  they  said  they 
would.  They  waited  an  hour  or  so,  patiently,  for  his  return. 
Then  another,  not  so  patiently.  Then  another  and  another,  unti. 
the  dawn  of  the  winter’s  morning.  But  no  Donald  M’Donnell 
tame  back  to  them.” 


542 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


“  Nor  has  ever  since  been  heard  of,”  said  Eva  :  “  from  that 
hour  my  poor  brother  was  lost  to  us.” 

“  From  that  hour !”  echoed  Onagh.  “  Did  you  never  hear  of 
any  little  things  afterwards  that  might  give  you  a  guess  as  to 
his  fate  ?” 

“ Never,”  answered  Eva;  “although  every  possible  inquiry 
and  search  were  made  in  the  country.” 

“But  I  did,”  continued  Onagh.  “In  a  little  time,  some 
people  began  to  whisper  that  a  great  clamp  of  turf  had  been  seen 
blazing,  the  same  night,  in  a  black  bog  near  his  house.  And 
when  the  curious  neighbors  went  to  scrape  among  the  ashes  of 
the  turf,  they  found  two  buttons  of  a  man’s  coat,  half  melted 
away.  That  was  all.” 

“  Woman!”  cried  Eva,  “  what  horrid  thing  would  you  insinu¬ 
ate  ?  Who  are  you  ?” 

“  Woman,  yourself  !”  retorted  Onagh,  bursting,  in  returning 
insanity,  from  her  calm,  “  what  right  have  you  to  speak  thus  to 
me  ?  But  I — I — didu’t  I  see  it  all  ?  When  he  met  me  at  the 
window,  and  walked  me,  a  field  or  two,  away — when  my  dark 
brothers  came  up  to  us,  one  carrying  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
asked  him  to  do  it  and  their  sister  justice — when  I  went  on  my 
knees,  begging  the  same  thing,  for  now  I  feared  the  worst — 
what  think  you  he  answered  ?  in  cruelty  and  hardness  of  heart, 
what  think  you  ?  That  he  would  rather  die  than  wed — these 
were  Donald  M’Donneirs  words — than  wed  his  own  strumpet — 
the  mother  of  his  base  bastard  !  When  all  this  was  done  and 
spoken,  didn’t  I  first  see  them  trample  him  down,  till  the  sense 
left  him — and  then  tie  him  and  his  and  my  child  together — and 
when  the  clamp  was  roaring,  pitch  them  like  a  fagot  into  it  ? 
Didn’t  they  tie  me,  too,  to  the  stake,  near  it,  and  leave  me  alone 
by  the  great  blaze,  while,  over  all  its  roaring,  I  heard  the  little 
cries  of  my  child,  the  hissing  of  flesh,  and  the  crackling  of  bones, 
until  my  hoarse  shrieks  died  away  in  madness?  Hell — real  and 
eternal  hell  was  round  me,  and  I  thought  it  was  my  doom  and 
punishment  to  see,  and  hear,  and  suffer,  without  a  tear  or  groan. 
What  know  I  of  the  rest — of  all  that  followed,  until  the  mad¬ 
ness  sent  me,  alone  and  by  stealth,  to  the  north,  and  made  me 
believe  I  was  bid  to  cross,  to  my  life’s  ending,  the  first  love  of 
any  brother  of  his  blood,  whose  hardheartedness  had  withered 
up  my  heart,  like  the  blasted  meadow  of  ripe  corn,  when  the 
reapers  come  down  to  cut  the  standing  crop,  but  find  it  alrea  iy 
low  ?  Reasons  I  give  you  none  ;  I  have  none  to  give.  But 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


543 


often,  when,  in  terrible  shapes  came  the  biddings  of  unnatural 
revenge — when  I  started  from  my  lone  bed — a  knife  in  my  hand 
— to  seek  my  dark  brothers — often  I  thought  a  good  and  great 
voice  plainly  whispered  me  to  a  better  and  less  sinful  one — whis¬ 
pered  me  to  save,  from  the  blight  that  came  over  me  through 
the  M’Donnell’s  false  blood,  whatever  maiden  any  brother  of 
their  house  might  try  to  undo — to  save  her,  even  by  her  life’s 
death,  from  her  honor’s  death.  And  along  with  such  whispers 
was  a  promise  of  gifts,  above  mere  human  gifts  and  power,  to 
guide  me  in  my  course,  and  lead  me  to  my  end  ;  the  gift  to  fore¬ 
see,  foretell,  and  prevent.  And  had  I  not  the  gift  and  the 
power,  proud  Eva  M’Donnell?  Did  I  not  foresee  and  foretell  ? 
Did  I  not — but  hush,  hush — let  me  not  go  on  in  this  boasting 
now.  There  is  a  good  God,  who  will  give  me  rest  and  quiet, 
and  a  clearer  view  of  the  past.  Forgive  me,  Eva  ;  forgive  me, 
and  pray  for  my  peace,  and  the  soul  of  your  eldest  brother.” 

With  such  words,  Onagh  left  them. 

After  a  sorrowful  pause — 

“Dearest  Eva,”  said  Evelyn,  “  what  misery  you  prepared  for 
me  upon  the  day  when,  sitting  over  the  Gray  Man’s  Path,  you 
committed  the  unhappy  mistake  of  reporting  as  dead,  this  youth, 
your  younger  brother,  James  !” 

“  He  has  told  me  of  some  of  the  strange  results,  to  your 
mind,  of  that  story,”  said  Eva.  “  But  how  could  words,  or  even 
appearances,  no  matter  how  convincing,  make  you  believe  me 
capable  of  any  act  unworthy  of  you,  Evelyn?  Need  I  account 
for  my  situation,  from  the  moment  we  were  parted  at  Glenar- 
riff  ?  If  so,  here  is  my  gray-headed  guardian  to  tell  you,  that 
then,  separating  from  poor  Edmund  also,  I  became  immediately 
attached  to  my  Lady  Tyrconnel’s  court,  up  to  the  hour  of  King 
James’s  retiriug  to  France — ” 

“  When  my  child  Eva,  and  I,  left  Ireland  with  him,”  added 
the  old  priest. 

“  No,  dear  Eva,  this  explanation  was  not  necessary  ;  at  least 
not  for  my  present  assurance,  however  it  might  have  been  after¬ 
wards  sought.  Alas  !”  he  continued,  “  it  was  upon  the  day  al¬ 
ready  spoken  of  you  also  mentioned  to  me,  for  the  first  time,  the 
name  of  the  elder  brother,  whose  sad  fate  we  have  just  heard  ac¬ 
counted  for.” 

“It  was,”  said  Eva.  “And  upon  that  very  day,  too,  and 
while  we  held  the  discourse  you  so  well  remember,  our  poor  Ed¬ 
mund  first  was  invited  to  joiu  the  wild  and  desperate  people  hi? 


544 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


subsequent  mortifications  and  despair  drove  him  to  associate 
with.  You  remember  the  appearance  of  the  man,  in  the  mist, 
down  the  path,  and  Edmund’s  leaving  us  to  follow  him  ?” 

“  I  do.  When  we  afterwards  got  on  board  the  smuggling 
galliot,  I  suspected  whom  he  might  have  been.” 

“  Doubtless.  A  scattered  band  of  Rapparees  at  that  moment 
were  in  the  vessel  ;  discontented,  I  believe,  with  their  nominal 
leader,  Hogan.  They  had  heard  of  Edmund’s  difficulties,  as 
brought  on  by  the  persecution  of  our  noble  cousin,  and  were  on 
the  lookout  for  him,  round  the  coast,  at  the  very  moment  he 
thus  met,  by  chance,  one  of  their  emissaries.  Edmund  has  since 
informed  me,  by  letter,  of  these  facts.  And  he  has  written  me 
more  pleasing  advice,  dear  Evelyn.  For  a  long  time,  his  calmed 
and  reflective  spirit  has  spurned  the  courses  and  habits  upon 
which  his  despair  and  impetuosity  served  to  throw  him,  and  our 
brother  but  looks  for  an  opportunity  to  reassume  the  rank  and 
bearing  more  worthy  of  his  nature  and  name — of  him  and  us. 
These  times  tempt  a  man  to  much  error  and  madness,  but  at 
last  teach  him  much  experience.  James  can  vouch  all  this  to 
you.” 

“  I  can,”  replied  the  youth,  anxiously  looking  from  the  walls  ; 
11  but  here  is  something  important  to  us  or  him — a  rider  who  has 
just  got  under  shelter  of  the  walls,  and  whom  I  know  well, 
makes  impatient  and  troubled  signs  to  me.  Hark  1  he  enters  at 
the  gate.” 

In  a  few  seconds,  the  Rapparee  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  wall, 
and  whispered  the  young  man. 

“  Say  you  so,  by  heaven  !  Get  our  men,  who  are  in  the  town, 
ready,  then.  Haste,  and  then  let  us  have  a  trial  for  it.  Sister, 
farewell  !  I  go  to  free  our  brother.  He  is  in  the  hands  of  this 
Ginkle,  who,  a  hundred  times,  has  sworn  his  ruin — farewell,  fare* 
well  !” 

He  disappeared  ;  Eva,  shrieking  in  terror,  and  Evelyn,  fore¬ 
seeing  the  uselessness,  or  worse,  of  violence,  in  such  a  case, 
vainly  urging  him  to  remain. 

“  No,  let  him  go — and  let  us  follow!”  cried  Eva.  “  Have  we 
no  friends  near,  to  intercede  with  this  merciless  man  ?  Where 
is  Sarsfield  ?” 

“In  the  camp,  With  Ginkle,”  answered  Evelyn. 

“  In  the  camp  !  what  camp  ?  What  does  he  there  ?” 

“  He  has  gone  out  to  sign  a  treaty  for  the  surrender  of  Lim< 
erick.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


545 


u  Surrender  !”  screamed  Eva,  starting  up  ;  “  misery  upon  mis¬ 
ery  I  private  and  public  ruin  together  !  Come,  Evelyn,  protect 
me  to  this  camp  ;  now  there  is  a  double  cause  why  we  should 
be  there — to  save  a  brother,  and  a  country  1  Come,  I  have  ar 
guments  to  try  for  both.  Surrender  ?  Why  ?” 

“  The  disappointment  of  the  fleet  from  France — ” 

“  Disappointment  of  the  fleet  ?  Come  away.  Disappoint 
ment  1  I  have  news  to  match  that — your  arm,  Evelyn.  Oh, 
dearest  Evelyn  1  God  grant  there  arise  here  no  new  and  eter¬ 
nal  cause  for  our  separation,  indeed.  But  should  injury  come  on 
Edmund — injury  in  life  and  prospects — what  can  a  wretched  sis¬ 
ter  do  but  forever  mourn  over  it,  or  dedicate  herself  forever  to 
soothe  it  1  Be  a  friend  to  us,  heaven  1”  she  cried,  as,  with  Eve¬ 
lyn,  she  hastened  down  the  wall,  waving  her  hand  to  old  Priest 
M’Dounell  to  stay  by  Carolan’s  side,  whose  troubled  features 
told  the  torture  with  which  he  heard  the  announcement  of  the 
new  misfortune. 

While  the  conversation  we  have  detailed  occurred  on  the  walls 
of  Limerick,  Sarsfield  and  his  colleagues  sat  down  in  Ginkle’s 
tent,  to  a  dinner  as  dainty  as  the  situation  and  all  circumstances 
would  allow.  He  found,  in  the  Dutch  general,  a  pleasing  speci¬ 
men  of  his  country  ;  blunt  and  matter-of-fact,  indeed,  but  more 
courteous  and  animated  than  any  of  the  same  nation  he  had  be¬ 
fore  seen.  A  portly,  full-breasted,  middle-aged  man,  holding  him¬ 
self  very  erect  and  bluff,,  and  his  broad  face,  and  wide,  though 
not  disagreeable  features,  wearing  a  constant  smile,  that  almost 
approached  to  a  smirk.  At  his  side  were  other  Dutch,  English, 
and  French  officers,  and  William’s  justices  ;  together  with  Dr 
Dopping  and  Colonel  Lloyd. 

The  repast  proceeded  in  good-humor,  and  mutual  and  a  sin¬ 
cere  show  of  that  respect  and  good-will  which  fair  foes  always 
entertain  for  each  other.  It  was  done  ;  bumpers  were  filled, 
healths  toasted,  and  hands  clasped  in  fellowship,  whose  duty  it 
had  a  moment  before  been  to  point  the  sword  at  one  another’s 
hearts.  Then,  General  Ginkle  proceeded  to  business.  He  led 
the  whole  party  from  his  tent  to  a  spot  at  the  county  Clare  side 
of  Thomond  Bridge,  almost,  it  might  be  said,  in  sight  of  both 
armies.  There,  pausing  near  a  huge  stone,  he  drew  out  a  fair 
copy  of  the  treaty  of  surrender,  which  had  before  been  discussed 
and  agreed  to.  Having  conned  it  over,  he  handed  it  to  the  jus¬ 
tices,  and  when  they  had  done  reading  it,  to  Sarsfield,  saying, 
that  he  believed  Lord  Lucan  would  find  it  sufficient  for  honor- 


546 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


able  men  at  any  time  to  accept,  and  especially  calculated  to  give 
security  in  property,  immunity  for  the  past,  freedom  in  religion, 
eligibility  to  political  place  and  rank.  In  a  word,  quiet  and  liberty 
to  the  Catholics  of  Ireland. 

Sarsfield,  having  attentively  perused  the  document,  said  that 
its  provisions  appeared  to  him  so  calculated  ;  and  he  passed  it  to 
his  legal  adviser,  Sir  Toby  Butler.  The  barrister  gave  it  a  re¬ 
newed  approval,  and  handed  it  round. 

“We  cannot  be  certain,”  added  Sir  Toby,  “  that  with  such 
unusual  dispatch,  and  amid  so  much  warm  discussion,  we  shall 
be  able  to  frame,  to  the  very  letter,  an  instrument  in  which  some 
ingenious  knave  may  not  pick  a  hole.  But  we  understand  that 
the  spirit  of  this  treaty  shall  be  kept  with  us.” 

“  And  so  should  all  understand,”  replied  Ginkle.  “  The 
paper  but  keeps  the  promises  I  before  held  out,  and  for  which  I 
have  often  received  the  commands  of  my  royal  master.” 

“  And  you,  General  Ginkle,  engage  for  King  William,  that 
he  will  speedily  ratify  it  ?”  resumed  the  lawyer. 

“  His  majesty  empowers  me  to  do  so,”  answered  Ginkle. 

“  Come,  then,”  cried  Sarsfield,  checking  a  stifled  sigh  ;  “  let 
us  sign,  in  the  name  of  God  and  of  our  country — in  the  name  of 
honesty  and  good  faith.” 

“  I  sign,  in  that  pledge,”  said  Ginkle,  laying  the  paper  on  the 
adjacent  stone,  and,  as  he  knelt,  the  better  to  speed  his  task,  at¬ 
taching  his  signature  thereto.  As  he  motioned  his  other  gener¬ 
als  to  draw  near  for  the  same  purpose,  a  great  uproar  was  heard 
towards  the  camp.  They  severally  took  the  pen,  however  ;  and 
Sarsfield  at  last  rose,  while  the  tumult  increased,  also  approached 
the  stone,  and  knelt  ;  remarking  it  was,  by  accident,  a  good 
position  for  the  act.  He  was  beginning  to  write,  when  Eva 
M’Donnell,  haggard  and  agitated,  ran  up,  crying,  “  Hold  your 
hand,  my  lord  of  Lucan,  and  hark  a  word  from  me.” 

“  A  mad  woman,”  said  Dr.  Dopping  ;  “  let  her  be  put  aside 
though,  while  he  spoke,  he  looked,  in  significant  alarm,  at  Col¬ 
onel  Lloyd.  Sarsfield  had  glanced  up  ;  but  resumed  his  writ 
ing,  and  hastily  finished  his  signature. 

“  Not  so  mad,  either,  as  he  who  will  not  forbear,  at  my  re 
quest,”  cried  Eva. 

“  What  now  ?”  asked  Sarsfield,  advancing  to  her,  as  the  othef 
Irish  officers  subscribed  their  names. 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  me,  my  lord  ;  yet  might  you  have 
seen  Eva  M’Donnell  in  the  Castle  of  Dublin.” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER.  547 

11  Miss  M’Donnell  1  I  do,  indeed,  remember.  Can  I  do  you 
a  service  ?” 

li  My  lord,  you  can ;  but  first — although  a  brother’s  life 
nearly  hangs  on  it — serve  your  country,  my  lord  of  Lucan! 
Suffer  not  the  full  signatures  to  be  put  to  this  treaty,  for,”  she 
added,  in  a  close  and  hissing  whisper,  “  Chateau  Renault  this 
moment  sails  with  a  brave  fleet  from  Dingle  Bay  to  Limerick. 
I  crossed  to  Ireland  with  him,  and  my  private  need  not  brook¬ 
ing  delay  when  he  touched  on  the  coast,  rode  hither  since  yester¬ 
day.” 

“Let  no  other  man  sign  !”  cried  Sarsfield,  turning  round  to 
the  officers. 

“  Praises  to  the  Lord !”  said  Dr.  Dopping,  clapping  his  hand 
on  the  document,  “  the  last  name  is  written  hereon.” 

“  Mighty  God  !”  exclaimed  Sarsfield,  stamping,  as  he  instinct¬ 
ively  grasped  his  sword,  “  is  all  lost,  then,  and  the  game  in  our 
very  hand  ?  Hither,  gentlemen  1  hither  I” 

The  Irish  officers  gathered  round  him  ;  and,  in  vehement  whis¬ 
pers,  he  told  the  news. 

“  Let  us  back  to  the  town,”  said  John  Grace. 

“Yes,”  said  another,  “the  gates  are  still  shut,  and  we  can 
hold  them  so,  as  we  have  done.” 

G inkle  and  his  officers  also  drew  aside,  and  whispered  with 
each  other. 

“  You  would  break  this  treaty,  even  in  the  same  hour  you 
sign  it,  my  Lord  Lucan,”  said  Colonel  Lloyd. 

“  As  perfidious  Papists  ever  did,”  added  the  Bishop  of  Meath. 

The  Irish  officers  returned  angry  and  ominous  scowls  for  these 
home  charges — all  but  Sarsfield.  He  stood  aloof  from  them, 
his  eyes  buried  in  the  earth.  He  looked  around,  as  if  to  take 
an  inspiring  view  of  that  country,  the  question  of  whose  sub¬ 
jection  or  independence  tugged  at  the  foundations  of  his  sense  of 
private  honor.  He  panted  ;  he  sighed  quickly  and  laboriously  ; 
his  forehead  grew  moist ;  his  cheek  alternately  red  and  pale  ; 
while,  with  the  point  of  his  scabbard,  he  unconsciously  dug  at 
the  sod  on  which  he  stood.  The  remarks  of  Ginkle’s  party 
growing  louder,  he  started,  suddenly  ;  listened  a  moment ;  held 
himself  more  erect  j  smiled  bitterly  ;  and  turning  on  his  heel  to 
them,  said — 

“  Nay,  gentlemen,  be  not  so  quick,  nor  so  hard  with  us.  You, 
Coloucl  Lloyd,  be  merciful,  in  particular  ;  for  though  your  city 
of  Derry  sent  a  shot  in  Ring  James’s  face,  when  it  was  expected 


548 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


to  keep  a  treaty  with  him,  yet  shall  this  treaty  stand.  Though 
an  ally’s  fleet,  bearing  us  help  enough  to  hold  all  Ireland  in  our 
hands,  be  now  entering  the  mouth  of  the  Shannon,  yet  shall  it 
stand.  Though  our  country  be  lost  to  us — though  we  bid  fare¬ 
well  to  her  forever — though  she  exist  for  us  but  in  our  recol¬ 
lections  and  our  sorrows,” — a  manly  tear  glazed  his  eye — “  yet 
shall  it  stand.  And  so,  fare  you  well,  gentlemen.  We  cannot 
save  even  our  country  at  the  price  of  our  honor,  which,  along 
with  our  love  and  efforts  for  her,  alone  makes  us  worthy  of  being 
called  her  children.  Farewell,  I  say.  Keep  ye  your  part  of 
this  covenant  as  well  as  we  keep  ours,  and  there  needs  no  ill- 
blood  between  us.  Come,  brother  soldiers — yet,  forgive  me,  if 
I  stumble  on  a  doubt.  They  who  suspect  much  of  others,  can 
scarce  ever  promise  much  for  themselves.  Come,  Miss  M’Don- 
uell — General  Ginkle,  I  mean  not  you,  whose  fair-dealing  is  evi¬ 
dent  through  all  this  matter — but  Ireland  is  governed  at  home, 
sir,  when  her  masters  turn  their  backs.  Adieu,  sir — follow, 
gentlemen — Miss  M’Donnell  with  you.  God  of  nations  I  God 
of  freedom  !”  he  added,  as  he  turned  away,  “  what  a  sore  chance 
is  this  !”  and  he  wept  convulsively. 

“  General  Sarsfield,”  cried  Eva,  as  the  tumult,  before  heard, 
and  afterwards  gone  off,  was  renewed — “  since  you  can  no  longer 
raise  an  arm  for  your  country,  aid  me,  oh,  aid  me,  to  save  my 
brother  1  my  brothers  I”  Sarsfield  started  in  much  interest. 
Eva  rapidly  explained  that  Edmund,  having  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  Ginkle’s  soldiers,  had  been  ordered  to  be  shot  ;  that  James 
M’Donnell,  rashly  and  madly  trying  to  rescue  him,  had  of  course 
but  shared  his  fate  ;  that  Evelyn,  passing  with  her  from  Lim¬ 
erick,  had  flown  on  to  the  outpost,  to  gain,  if  possible,  a  moment’s 
delay,  while  she,  recognizing  Sarsfield,  remained  to  crave  his 
intercession  with  Ginkle.  Sarsfield,  having  heard  her  story, 
darted  back  to  Ginkle — Eva  onward. 

She  gained,  wild  with  terror,  yet  not  bereft  of  hope,  the  spot 
on  which  her  brothers  stood.  Edmund  and  James  M’Donnell, 
the  former  supported  by  Evelyn,  were  in  motion  towards  a  clear 
space  of  ground — a  rank  of  soldiers  standing  behind  them. 
Evelyn,  as  he  passed  his  hand  round  Edmund’s  waist,  smote  his 
forehead  with  the  other,  and  often  looked  back.  Eva,  unchecked 
by  the  officer,  ran  in  through  the  soldiers,  and  clasped  her  arms 
round  her  brothers  :  “  Hope,  hope  !”  she  cried — “  you  must — 
you  shall  be  saved  1  this  can  never  be  I  One  moment,  officer  l 
onty  one  moment,  till  my  lord  of  Lucan — ” 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


549 


Wnile  she  spoke,  Ginkle  and  Sarsfield  rode  up.  The  general 
had  pleaded  as  if  for  the  lives  of  two  sons.  They  were  in¬ 
stantly  pardoned.  The  ensuing  scene  must  be  imagined. 

One  condition  accompanied,  however,  the  grace  to  the  broth¬ 
ers,  namely,  that  they  should  transport  themselves  out  of  Ire¬ 
land.  When  Eva  heard  this  from  the  lips  of  Evelyn,  her  brow 
fell  towards  him — she  was  silent.  Then  she  brightened  up,  and 
vowed,  as  she  had  before  intimated,  to  join  herself  to  her  broth¬ 
ers’  wanderings,  and  own  no  other  care  or  duty.  Evelyn  heard 
her  in  despair. 

Sarsfield  soothed  Edmund,  promising  to  take  the  same  vessel 
with  him,  and  give  him  a  command  when  his  Lucan  regiment 
should  be  reiucorporated  on  the  Continent.  All  was  now 
nearly  over.  Limerick  opened  its  gates  to  King  William  ;  and 
the  next  day  the  French  fleet  entered  the  river — the  fleet  only 
doomed  to  transport  the  defenders  of  Ireland  to  a  foreign  shore, 
though  it  had  come  to  restore  them  to  their  country.  The 
whole  Irish  army  was  reviewed  by  William’s  generals  and  jus¬ 
tices,  and  solicited  to  pass  into  his  service,  the  officers  retaining 
their  rank.  About  a  thousand  did  so  :  many  thousands  more 
marched  to  embark  for  France  at  Cork  :  the  rest  sailed  from 
Limerick.  It  was  a  sad  scene,  that  strange  embarkation.  No 
adieus  were  exchauged  with  remaining  friends,  by  the  emigrants 
— with  brothers,  sisters,  or  wives.  Friends,  of  every  sex  and 
age,  exiled  themselves,  together.  They  had  only  to  stand  on  the 
decks  of  their  vessels,  and  look  a  long  adieu  to  their  country. 

Our  friends  experienced  the  sole  trouble  that  day  seen.  Sars¬ 
field,  and  some  brother  officers,  Edmund  and  James  M’Donnell, 
Eva,  Evelyn,  and  Carolan,  all  walked  together  to  the  river’s 
edge.  One  after  the  other  they  stepped  into  the  boat,  until  it 
came  to  Eva’s  turn. 

“  And  do  you,  indeed,  leave  me,  with  but  this  mocking  sym¬ 
bol  of  an  eternal  fate,  once  solemnly  sworn  at  the  altar  ?”  asked 
Evelyn,  catching  her  arm,  as,  blinded  in  tears,  she  also  put  her 
foot  on  the  boat,  and  he  showed  her  marriage  ring. 

“  Have  you  considered  well,  Eva  ?”  asked  Edmund.  “  God 
knows,  your  presence  would  be  the  only  joy  of  our  exile.  But 
if  you  love  your  husband,  stay  by  his  side  ;  I  should  not  be  a 
brother  or  a  Christian  to  say  you  otherwise.  Examine  you t 
heart — call  upon  your  God  ;  \nd  if  a  great  duty  prompts — why, 
then,  Eva,  ask  Him  to  bless  us — and  so,  fare  you  well,  Eva- 
sister — orphan  sister — fare  you  well  1” 


650 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


For  the  day  before,  Eva  had  evidently  been  shaken  in  her 
stern  resolve,  as  well  by  the  pleadings  of  Evelyn  as  by  her  own 
reflections.  Now  she  hesitated,  her  foot  still  on  the  boat.  The 
rowers  spoke  of  putting  off.  Her  husband  grasped  her  hand, 
and  replaced,  unseen  by  any,  the  ring  on  her  finger.  Her 
brothers,  not  displeased,  nor,  on  her  account,  sorry,  saw  which 
way  God  and  woman’s  nature  at  last  swayed  her.  They 
embraced  their  sister;  she  clung,  sobbing,  and  almost  shrieking, 
to  them.  The  boat  was  about  to  move  ;  her  husband  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  The  boat  put  off;  and  now  she  clung  to  him. 

“  Farewell,  Eva — farewell,  Evelyn — farewell,  Carolan — fare¬ 
well,  Ireland!”  cried  the  brothers,  as  the  rowers  pulled  hard. 
Carolan  was  on  the  bank;  all  hands  had  before  been  clasped 
with  his.  Now  he  struck  his  little  harp.  It  was  an  extempo¬ 
raneous  and  touching  air  he  played. 

“  Farewell,  the  ashes  of  my  first  and  only  love  !”  Edmund 
M’Donnell  was  heard  to  add;  and  they  were  his  last  words 
parting  from  his  country. 

“Farewell,  Mr.  Evelyn,”  said  Sarsfield,  grasping  his  hand. 
“  To  you,  and  such  as  you,  we  look  for  the  observance  of  this 
treaty  of  Limerick,  which,  if  observed,  will  give  her  exiles  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  Ireland,  though  not  a  free,  is  a 
peaceful  country,  and  may  grow  to  be  a  happy  one.” 

It  was  not. 

Years  wore  away  without  any  direct  communication  from  the 
exiles  to  their  friends  in  Ireland,  the  political  distraction  between 
England  and  the  Continent  not  favoring  such.  At  last  came 
epistles  from  Edmund  to  his  sister  and  her  husband.  Of  the 
latter  the  following  is  an  extract  : — 

“  Evelyn,  I  am  shaken  with  a  sudden  and  terrible  grief ;  but 
of  that  anon.  What  do  I  hear,  Evelyn  ?  Is  it  true  what  I 
heard  ?  That  treaty,  on  the  faith  of  which  brave  and  deter¬ 
mined  men — often  victorious,  and,  at  its  signing,  well  supported 
— cast  down  their  arms,  content  to  spare  their  country’s  blood 
in  giving  her  peace  ;  that  treaty,  upon  the  faith  of  which  a 
whole  army  became  aliens  from  their  country,  when  they  might 
have  been  conquerors  on  her  bosom — if,  indeed,  the  rumor 
that  has  reached  us  speak  truly,  answer  me,  Evelyn — on  what 
stence  has  it  not  been  kept  ?  Give  me  every  information. 


Who  are  they  that  have  failed  to  keep  it  ?  Has  William  re¬ 
fused  ?  Did  he  not  engage,  through  Ginkle,  to  ratify  it  ?  Let 
me  know  who  are  the  false  knaves,  that  their  names  may  be 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


551 


accursed  in  the  mouths  of  the  gallant  men,  by  whose  side  I 
have  been  sent  to  gather,  in  a  strange  land,  the  laurels  denied  to 
me  in  my  own.  Let  us  know  them,  that,  though  far  from  Ire¬ 
land,  and  from  all  hope  of  serving  her,  we  may  soothe  our  tears 
of  wrath  and  shame  by  the  burning  hatred  we  will  swear  to 
keep  for  Ireland’s  betrayers. 

“And  not  only  the  treaty  has  not  been  kept,  as  still  I  hear— 
not  only  Irishmen  are  not  continued  in  the  political  rights  and 
the  security  as  to  religion  and  lands,  which  it  promised,  but 
additional  persecution  has  been  levelled  against  them — pains, 
and  penalties,  and  proscriptions,  that  the  blood  boils  but  to 
think  of.  Answer  me,  Evelyn.  I  will  not  believe  these  things 
till  you  authorize  me  so  to  do. 

“  But,  even  though  you  gainsay  my  fears,  what  matters  it 
now  to  me  ?  Oh,  I  am  torn  with  a  sorrow  that  makes  me  indif¬ 
ferent  to  your  tidings  while  I  ask  for  them,  or  only  prepares  me 
to  meet  them  with  raving  execration.  Ireland’s  noblest  sou, 
Sarsfield,  is  dead.  I  was  by  his  side  when  he  fell,  victorious, 
with  his  Irish  brigade,  in  the  midst  of  a  defeated  army.  ‘  Ire¬ 
land,  this  is  not  for  you,’  he  said,  and  died.  And  the  ball  that 
pierced  his  heart  shattered  a  heart  already  broken.  The  ru¬ 
mors  about  which  I  now  write  to  you,  had  previously  struck 
him  down  with  rage,  shame,  remorse,  and  despair.  He  called 
himself  the  destroyer  of  his  country — her  destroyer  for  having, 
with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  trusted  her  peace  and  happiness  to 
that  treaty.  I  have  heard  him  pray  that,  now  she  was  degraded 
and  wretched,  and  he  unable  to  assist  her,  he  might  no  longer 
live.  The  night  before  the  battle  in  which  he  fell,  he  asked, 
with  tears  and  groans,  to  lie  dead  upon  its  field.  Answer  me, 
Evelyn.  Ed.  M’D.” 

Part  of  Evelyn’s  answer  ran  thus  : 

“No,  dear  Edmund,  it  has  not  been  kept.  It  is  equally  true, 
that  additional  wrong  has  been  added  to  its  violation.  William 
was  not  the  faith-breaker.  He  ratified  the  treaty,  as  his  gen¬ 
eral  had  promised  for  him,  a  few  months  after  your  departure  ; 
and  more  he  could  not  do  against  a  Parliament  that  has  ever 
been  wrangling  with  him,*  and  against  the  violence  of  those 

*  A  Parliament,  whose  opposition  to  every  measure  recommended 
by  William,  is  said,  even  by  Smollett,  to  have  “  savored  more  ol 
clownish  obstinacy  than  of  patriotism.”—  Note  by  A.  O’H. 


552 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


persons  who,  here  in  Ireland,  urged  that  Parliament  to  disallow 
the  solemn  act  of  their  sovereign.  In  shame  and  regret  that, 
as  an  Irish  Protestant,  I  must  naturally  feel,  it  is  my  duty  to 
answer  you  more  particularly.  You  had  scarce  sailed,  when 
the  most  of  your  Protestant  countrymen  cried  out  against  the 
treaty,  as  too  honorable  and  favorable  to  your  party.  Declar¬ 
ing  that  you  merited  to  lose  your  properties,  instead  of  having 
them  secured  to  you,  and  that  they,  meantime,  merited  to 
possess  them.  Denouncing  the  toleration  of  your  religion. 
Slandering  your  bravery.  Denying  your  successes.  Even  con¬ 
descending  to  censure  the  arrangement  that,  at  the  capitulation, 

allowed  vou  to  march  out  of  Limerick  with  the  honors  of  war. 
«/  m 

And  I  blush  particularly  to  recount,  that  the  spiritual  guides 
amongst  us,  whose  voices,  if  ever  raised  on  such  subjects,  ought 
to  be  raised  for  peace,  good-will,  and  good  faith,  have  been  the 
loudest  and  most  effective  in  promoting  the  sectarian  rancor, 
dishonorable  views,  and  bad  policy,  that  furnishes  you  with  just 
ground  of  complaint.  It  was  my  painful,  and — I  will  add — 
degraded  lot,  to  hear,  the  other  day,  a  sermon  in  Christ’s  Church, 
Dublin,  preached  by  Dr.  Dopping,  Bishop  of  Meath,  against 
your  treaty,  and  the  fulfilment  of  your  treaty.  To  hear  the 
doctrine  plainly  laid  down,  under  the  assumed  and  blasphemed 
authority  of  God,  that  faith  was  not  to  be  kept  towards  you. 
Such  is  the  spirit,  that  operating  upon  Parliament,  has  produced 
a  result  unjust  and  perfidious  to  you,  Edmund,  and  inglorious 
and  afflicting  to  me. 

il  But  let  us  not  despair.  Other  times  will  naturally  create 
another  spirit  ;  when,  if  only  to  redeem  the  memory  of  their 
fathers,  the  children  of  my  erring  friends  will  repair  this  fault. 
From  the  present  hour,  Ireland  must  become  a  united  country, 
fairly  and  nobly  rivalling  Englaud  in  all  that  makes  England 
truly  great,  or  remain,  for  ages,  a  province  of  England,  poor, 
shattered,  narrow-minded,  contemptible,  and,  party  with  party 
as  she  stands,  contemned  by  the  world,  aud  by  England  too. 
A  little  time  will  teach  this  lesson.  When  it  is  taught,  the 
union  indispensable  to  avoid  the  evil  will  be  endeavored  by  a 
recantation  of  old  slanders,  and  a  concession  of  old  rights. 
Man  cannot  always  be  unjust  to  man.  Even  for  his  own  rel¬ 
ative  character  and  happiness,  he  will  love  and  do  all  befitting 
and  merited  honor  to  his  brother.  At  least  I  believe  and  hope 
the  principle  is  in  his  nature. 

“  In  the  great  country  of  England,  there  must  also  arise  a 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


553 


feeling  to  right  the  present  wrong  to  which  it  has  just  lent  itself. 
For,  without  her  affirmation,  the  wrong  could  not  have  been 
committed.  The  descendants  of  the  men  who  have  sanctioned, 
and  by  that  means  caused  the  deliberate  breach  of  their  own 
treaty,  made  in  the  field,  will  awake  to  vindicate,  as  far  as  in 
them  lies,  the  name  of  their  ancestors.  A  son,  jealous  of  his 
father’s  honor,  pays  his  father’s  debts,  even  to  a  common  cred¬ 
itor.  Englishmen  will  yet  pay  their  fathers’  debt  of  faith  to 
Ireland.  The  treaty  of  Limerick  will  yet  be  kept. 

“  Farewell,  dear  Edmund.  Eva  writes  for  herself.  I  try  to 
make  her  happy  ;  but  she  thinks — shall  I  say  too  often  ? — of 
you  and  James,  and  of  the  degradation  of  her  country,  and  I  do 
not  always  succeed.  The  death  of  that  brave  man  has  given 
her  a  terrible  shock;  but  she  will  tell  you  her  own  feelings. 
Farewell.  A  little  Edmund  Evelyn  can  already  hear  us  talk 
about  you,  his  namesake.  There  is  also,  dear  Edmund,  a  little 
Esther,  who,  poor  Eva  thinks,  is  like  her  you  loved  so  truly. 
And  a  little  James,  who — but  I  have  done,  for  I  have  a  con¬ 
science.  God  bless  you. 

“  Robert  Evelyn.” 

34 


j  &  ’  :< 


- 


EH  Uv  S?  ?>•  >  ^V 


NOTES  TO  THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


Note — To  Close  the  Boyne  Water. 

This  tale  of  the  “  Boyne  Water”  being  from  my  brother’s  pen,  and 
the  action  being  placed,  for  the  most  part,  on  ground  with  which  I  am 
personally  unacquainted,  the  notes  are  therefore  limited ;  and  a  few  ex- 
tracts  from  letters  of  the  writer  of  the  tale,  written  while  it  progressed 
under  his  hands,  may  not  be  uninteresting.  They  will  serve  to  illustrate 
the  manner  in  which  he  and  I  co-operated  on  this,  as  well  as  on  other 
occasions.  The  letters  from  which  I  quote,  refer  as  well  to  domestic 
concerns  as  to  the  tale.  The  portions  alluding  to  the  tale  I  transcribe. 

“  London,  24th  August,  1825. 

•*  My  Dear  Michael — . To-morrow  morning  I  leave  for 

France,  to  convey  Ellen  home  to  England.  I  will  jog  her  to  Paris 
to  make  her  laugh  and  rub  her  eyes,  and,  indeed,  to  get  a  little  rec¬ 
reation  for  myself,  as  I  have  been  absolutely  fagged  since  I  saw  you. 

“  I,  as  well  as  you,  have  broken  the  ice  with  my  new  venture ;  and 
if  you  make  boast  of  your  three  chapters,  I  hereby  intimate  a  volume, 
of  360  pages  entirely  written,  other  two  volumes  planned  out — the 
tackle  in  the  loom  ready  for  the  shuttle.  So  doing  this  along  with 
other  things,  I  trust  you  will  not  call  me  an  idler. 

“  Do  you  know  I  think  I  shall  write  one  of  your  volumes  after  all  ? 
— a  thing  connected  with  R.  Emmet’s  insurrection.  A  story,  and  capital 
characters  and  situations  for  it,  have  come  into  my  noddle.  Will  you 
let  me  ?  When  do  you  hope  to  be  done  with  two  vols.?  Answer  me 
that  question  as  distinctly  as  you  can.  When  you  get  this  you  will 
have  returned  from  Limerick,  and  a  letter  from  you  will,  I  expect, 
meet  me  when  I  come  back  from  France.  I  am  sure  you  have  done 
all  I  could  wish  as  well  if  not  better  than  myself. 

“John  Banim.” 

London,  November,  6th,  1835 

“My  Dear  Michael — When  you  read  the  letter  that  Nicholas 
Buckley  takes  you,  separate  from  this,  you  will  see  I  am  not  really  the 
defaulter  you  must  have  long  ago  supposed  me  to  be.  Upon  the  day 
of  its  date  he  had  that  letter  from  me,  solemnly  assuring  me  (even 
Nicholas’s  jokes  are  solemn)  he  was  to  leave  London  the  next  morning 
Of  course  1  comforted  myself  with  the  idea  that  you  had  heard  from 
me  some  time  since,  when  yesterday,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  I  saw 
the  gentleman — where,  and  how  employed  think  you  ? — sitting  on  the 
steps  of  St.  Paul’s  Church,  surrounded  by  the  din  and  deafening  clamor 


556 


NOTES  TO  THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


of  perhaps  the  most  clamorous  spot  in  all  London,  unconscious,  appa¬ 
rently,  of  the  noise  and  turmoil  around  him,  intent  on  the  perusal  of 
a  newspaper  of  no  recent  date. 

“  You  are  not,  I  suppose,  ignorant  that  our  townsman,  Nicholas,  came 
to  London  ostensibly  to  realize  whatever  he  might  be  entitled  to  out 
of  his  late  brother’s  property.  Up  to  this,  I  believe,  his  receipts  have 
been  very  little ;  whatever  they  have  been,  I  think  they  have  been 
spent,  not  on  the  dissipations  or  amusements  of  London,  but  in  carry 
ing  out  a  plan  most  originally  conceived,  and  executed  industriously 
and  determinately.  He  resolved  to  become  intimately  acquainted  with 
every  inch  of  this  vast  city.  Not  only  with  the  most  prominent  and 
most  attractive  features,  but  with  every  court,  and  lane,  and  alley,  the 
most  out  of  public  view,  and  with  every  phase  of  life,  going  as  high 
as  he  could  reach,  and  as  low  as  he  could  descend.  The  more  effect¬ 
ually  to  prosecute  this  his  purpose,  he  proceeded  thus :  he  tenanted 
a  cheap  lodging  in  one  locality,  employed  a  week  or  more  prowling 
everywhere  in  the  neighborhood,  within  a  day’s  leisurely-walking 
distance  of  his  headquarters  ;  and  when  his  circuit  of  examination 
had  been  thoroughly  examined,  he  shifted  his  residence  to  another 
neighborhood,  and  went  on  as  before,  not  dwelling  more  than  a  week 
in  one  place. 

“  His  small  funds  have  been  at  length  so  exhausted,  that  he  assures 
me  he  has  been  subsisting  for  the  last  fortnight  on  some  farinaceous 
preparation  he  calls  ‘  breakfast  powder’  and  dry  bread,  his  average 
daily  expenditure  for  food  being  threepence  !  I  verily  believe  lie  knows 
more  about  London  than  many  born  Londoners  residing  all  their  lives 
within  the  bills  of  mortality. 

“  It  appears  that  after  he  had  left  me,  with  the  conviction  on  my 
mind  that  he  was  to  depart  for  home  the  next  day,  he  recollected  that 
his  knowledge  of  some  particular  locality  was  not  to  his  satisfaction, 
so  he  took  lodgings  in  a  central  point,  and  subsisting  ascetically  on  his 
4  breakfast  powder  and  bread,’  prosecuted  his  researches ;  my  letter, 
which  I  supposed  to  be  in  your  hands,  in  his  pocket  all  the  while.  He 
now  pledges  his  conscience  that  he  is  to  be  off  direct  for  Kilkenny  to¬ 
morrow,  and  I  again  trust  him. 

“  I  have  altered  my  mind  about  sending  you  the  novel  in  its  entire 
state.  Herewith  you  have  one  volume.  I  am  obliged  to  be  thus  in 
consistent  with  the  resolution  expressed  in  the  accompanying  letter, 
because  I  must  go  to  press  a  month  from  this  day.  So  read  it  imme¬ 
diately,  my  dear  Michael,  and  promptly  return  it.  Moreover,  do  me 
the  favor  to  make  notes  on  separate  slips  of  paper,  paged  in  reference 
to  the  MS.  page,  and  placed  loose  in  the  leaves.  Whenever  you  see, 
or  rather  feel,  an  opening,  write  over  a  sentence  or  phrase  in  your  own 
idiom,  or  add  a  touch  of  your  humor,  or  substitute  yours  for  mine. 

“  In  your  criticisms  be  very  blunt  and  plain,  but  short — a  hint  ia 
enough  on  any  point,  because  we  understand  each  other  so  perfectly. 

“  Write  me  back  with  the  volume  a  letter,  in  your  own  character 
anticipatory  of  the  objections  likely  to  be  made  by  partymenon  either 
side,  saying  any  thing  that  strikes  you ;  and  when  this  comes  to  hand 
I  shall  work  an  introduction  out  of  it.  All  this,  my  dear  Michael,  is 
to  be  effected  within  a  fortnight  after  the  volume  reaches  you.  You 
will  not  fail  to  tell  me  candidly  your  general  opinion  of  this  voluma 


NOTES  TO  THE  BOYNE  WATEB. 


557 


It  is  only  right  that  I  should  know  myself ;  and  do  not  you,  at  least, 
through  a  false  delicacy,  allow  me  to  lead  myself  astray. 

“And  observe,  Mr.  Abel  O’Hara,  the  letter  in  answer  to  this  is  penned 
by  you  two  days  after  you  got  the  MS.,  and  have  given  to  it  the  first 
reading.  I  shall  be  most  anxious  for  your  letter  ;  ana  do  not  disap¬ 
point  me. 

“John  Banm.” 

"  London,  January  11th.  1826. 

" - ,  — still  go  on  with  your  criticisms  in  the  tone  hitherto  adopted. 

Do  not  fall  to  work  to  give  me  praise  through  a  brotherly  feeling ;  do 
act  spare  me :  the  more  severe,  the  more  friendly  will  you  be.  You 
cannot  disguise  your  sentiments  so  as  to  escape  detection :  and  the 
moment  I  perceive  a  want  of  sincerity,  there  is  an  end  of  our  con 
fidence.  No,  no,  I  say  again  ;  do  even  as  you  have  done  ;  for  my  sake, 
for  my  dearest  interest  sake,  ever  do  so  with  me ;  otherwise,  I  cannot 
again  have  the  advantage  of  your  advice  and  help,  and  should  go  on, 
not  seeing  or  knowing  myself.  Proceed  now  in  the  name  of  God,  and 
like  a  brother  and  a  man  act  your  part. 

“  Thank  God  you  were  so  happy  at  Christmas,  the  father  so  fatherly, 
and  the  poor  mother  able  to  sit  up  and  be  with  you.  We,  too,  drank 
your  healths  at  home  on  that  day. 

“  John  Banim.” 

“  London,  March  13,  1826. 

“  •  — ,  — I  hope  your  favorable  thoughts  of  the  Third  Y olume  are 
not  kindly  meant  as  a  salvo  to  make  up  for  your  previous  hard  knocks. 
However  this  may  be,  I  am  convinced  you  are  wrong  in  one  particular, 
namely,  as  to  your  conception  of  Sarsfield.  Your  own  words  condemn 
you.  You  say  :  ‘  Without  veritable  grounds  for  my  conception  of  him, 
I  had  imagined  him  almost  a  hero  of  romance,  and  expected  his  acts 
and  words  to  fit  that  character.’ 

“  This  could  not  be,  my  dear  Michael ;  he  was  a  plain,  matter-of-fact 
man,  devoted,  soul  and  body,  and  unflinchingly  to  his  cause,  brave,  en¬ 
terprising,  vigorous  ;  nothing  beyond  this.  Have  you  ever  seen  his 
portrait  ?  Very  unlike  in  feature  and  bearing  to  a  ‘  hero  of  romance.’ 
You  told  me  on  a  former  occasion  you  liked  my  description  of  him  at 
Johnstown.  In  that  description  I  'wished  to  give  such  a  person  as  I 
afterwards  strove  to  delineate  more  in  detail.  I  was  desirous  to  give 
Sarsfield  without  fictitious  or  imaginative  decoration. 

“  Will  you,  like  a  good  fellow,  work  somewhat  quicker  ?  The  press 
is  at  a  standstill,  and  we  must  not,  unnecessarily,  lose  a  moment. 

“  You  mistake  about  the  Third  Volume  being  hastily  written.  I 
gave  it  thrice  as  much  time  as  any  of  the  others. 

“  John  Banim.” 

Note — Introductory  Letter,  Page  10. 

My  brother  here  alludes  to  cases  of  close  resemblance,  known  to  both 
of  us.  There  were,  in  Kilkenny,  when  we  were  lads,  two  remarkable 
instances  of  this,  as  it  may  called,  separate  identity. 

Paris  and  Louis  An — n,  twin  brothers,  were  so  alike,  that  during 
their  infancy  their  own  father  was  unaole  to  distinguish  between  them 


558 


NOTES  TO  THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


constantly  mistaking  the  one  for  the  other,  and,  as  their  elder  brother 
assured  me,  occasionally  punishing  Louis  for  the  misdeeds  of  Paris,  and 
trouncing  Paris  for  the  backslidings  of  Louis.  At  night,  when  the 
two  boys  were  abed,  Roger  An — n  frequently  required  his  wife’s  at¬ 
tendance,  directing  her  to  point  out  the  child  called  Paris,  and  then  the 
child  called  Louis.  After  stooping  anxiously  over  them,  and  comparing 
them  and  studying  them,  while  they  quietly  slept,  he  invariably  went 
away,  his  doubts  still  strong  on  him,  pronouncing  his  wife  a  witch,  and 
declaring  his  inability,  after  the  closet  scrutiny,  to  say  “  which  was 
which,” — the  dissatisfied,  testy  man  making  no  allowance  for  the  ma¬ 
ternal  instinct  that  bestowed  a  supernatural  clearsightedness  on  the 
matter. 

Paris  and  Louis  grew  up,  even  to  their  manhood,  fac  similes  of  each 
other,  so  much  so,  that  if  an  intimate  of  theirs  met  Paris  and  accosted 
him,  and  at  some  paces  further  encountered  Louis,  he  would  have  been 
as  puzzled  as  was  their  father.  During  their  period  of  wooing,  it  was 
said  that  they  took  a  pleasure  in  perplexing  their  respective  mistresses, 
and  people  went  so  far  as  to  aver,  that  even  after  marriage,  it  was  some 
time  before  the  wives  were  actually  certain  as  to  ownership. 

Contemporaneous  with  Paris  and  Louis  An — n,  were  Ned  and  Billy 
Gladwell.  These  were  twin  brothers,  too.  Paris  and  Louis  An — n 
were  tall,  shapely,  remarkably  handsome  fellows,  and  one  might  sup¬ 
pose  that  nature,  pleased  with  her  handiwork  in  the  one  case,  had  cast 
the  second  in  the  same  mould  as  the  first.  But  no  such  inducement 
could  be  imagined  for  forming  Ned  and  Billy  Gladwell  in  duplicate. 
Ned  Gladwell  did  not  much  exceed  five  feet  in  height ;  and  were  Billy 
Gladwell  placed  back  to  back  with  iiis  brother  Ned,  half  the  breadth 
of  a  hair’s  difference  in  stature  could  not  be  detected.  They  were 
both  of  them  bullet-headed,  with  almost  circular  faces  and  little  pug 
noses :  anxious-looking,  but  manifestly  stupid  little  creatures  they  were, 
with  the  same  muddy,  leaden  look  from  the  eyes  of  both,  and  the  same 
droop  in  the  under  lip. 

If  Ned  and  Billy  Gladwell  were  dwarfish,  they  were  rotund  of  shape ; 
and  were  a  measuring  tape  to  circumscribe  them  at  any  or  every  point, 
at  the  chest,  round  their  little  paunches,  or  at  the  hips,  the  girth  of 
Ned  and  Billy  would  be  found  to  agree  accurately.  The  one  moved 
with  a  peculiar  waddling  gait,  as  if  infirm  of  limb  ;  so  did  the  other. 
Both  squeaked  out  their  words  as  they  spoke,  intoned  to  the  same 
piping  pitch,  whether  in  colloquy,  or  merriment,  or  vexation.  Each 
of  the  brothers  Gladwell  may  have  been  conscious  of  his  own  identity, 
but  beyond  yea  or  nay  the  certainty  was  confined  to  themselves,  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  dubious. 

Ned  and  Billy  Gladwell  were  noth  of  them  waiters  at  the  same 
time,  and  at  the  same  inn — the  Sheaf  Inn  it  was  called,  then  the  prin¬ 
cipal  place  of  entertainment  in  our  city  ;  and  they  owed  the  perma¬ 
nency  of  their  employment  to  their  singular  and  remarkable  identity. 
I  could  learn  that  the  guests  at  the  “  Sheaf”  were  often  at  fault,  from 
the  impossibility  of  distinguishing  Ned  from  Billy,  or  Billy  from  Ned 
the  orders  given  to  Ned  ignored  by  Billy,  and  the  gratuity  placed  in 
the  palm  of  Billy  ignored  by  Ned.  Billy  and  Ned  were  a  source  ot 
never-ending  amusement,  in  fact.  As  such  they  were  an  attraction 
they  drew  customers  to  “  The  Siieal  inn  and  people  came  out  o. 


NOTES  TO  THE  BOYNE  WATER. 


559 


their  way  to  look  at  them,  and  be  puzzled  by  them  ;  and  so  they  were 
retained  as  waiters  there  as  long  as  the  establishment  existed. 

One  of  the  Glad  wells,  whether  Billy  or  Ned  I  will  not  undertake  to 
certify — he  might  take  whichever  of  the  names  he  pleased  without  fear 
of  detection  as  a  personator — one  of  the  Gladwells  was  alive  a  few 
years  since.  At  his  death  he  was  the  inmate  of  a  charitable  asylum, 
where  servants  passed  their  labor  and  their  days  in  peace. 

Note — Chapter  V.,  Page  76. 

As  a  fact  bearing  on  a  disputed  question,  which  has,  to  some  extent, 
occupied  the  literary  world,  I  think  I  am  called  on  to  state  here,  that 
the  Ossianic  remnant  embodied  in  the  tale  is  the  literal  translation  of 
a  poem  recited  in  the  Irish  tongue  for  my  brother,  while  he  travelled 
through  the  county  Antrim.  And  the  transcriber  assured  me.  that 
numerous  relics  of  the  same  character  could  be  obtained  in  the  same 
locality. 


THE  END. 


.  . 


. 


. 

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